
qass.:: _ 



Book. 



nw 



SOLITUDE 

CONSIDERED, WITH 

RESPECT TO ITS INFLUENCE 

The Mind and the Heart. 

WRITTEN ORIGINALLY IN GERMAN. 



BY M. ZIMMERMAN^ 

LULIC COUNSELLOR AND PHYSICIAN Tt) HIS 
BRITANNICK MAJESTY AT HANOVER. 

TRANSLATED FROM THS FRENCH OF 

J. B.MERCIER. 



NEW-LONDON : 

PRINTED BT CADT & EELLS, 
FOR THOMAS AND WHIPPLE, NEW BURYP0R1\ 

isor. 



fjt*%. SOidfers Heme Library 
Jen- £5, 5,933 



PREFACE 
French translator. 



»©<^>@« 



T 



HE Title of this work will, perhaps, give some 
alarm to delicate ears : the word " Solitude" may 
inspire melancholy and unfavorable ideas ; it is how- 
ever only necessary to read a few pages to be 
undeceived. The author is not one of those extra- 
vagant Misanthropes, who would compel mankind, 
born for Society, and connected with it by a variety 
of indissoluble ties, to retire into forests, to inhabit 
dens and caves, and to live only with wild beasts ; 
he is a friend to humanity ; a sensible and virtuous 
individual, an honest citizen, honoured by the es- 
teem of his Prince, who endeavours to enlighten the 
minds of his fellow-creatures upon a subject the 
most interesting to them — the attainment of hap- 
piness. 

No writer ever appeared more completely satis- 
fied that man is born for Society, or seems to have 
better studied all the social duties of life, than M. 



IV PREFACE OF THE 

Zimmermann. But what is society ? what arc 
the social duties of life i These are the questions 
which the author examines. The important cha- 
racters of Father, Husband, Son, and Citizen, impose 
on man certain indispensable obligations which are 
ever dear to the virtuous heart ; they establish be- 
tween him, his country and his family, relations too 
necessary and too agreeable to be neglected. It is 
not however in tumultuous joys, in the noisy pleas- 
ures of public entertainments, in blindly following 
the chimeras of ambition, the illusions of self-love, 
or the speculations of desire, that men must expect 
to feel the charms of those reciprocal ties which 
unite them to Society ; to perceive the dignity of 
those duties which nature made productive of so 
many pleasures ; to taste that true felicity which is 
accompanied by independence and content ; a feli- 
city so seldom desired only because it is so little 

n n, but which every man may cultivate within 

own breast. 

Alis ! who has not frequently experienced the 
necessity of entering into that sacred asylum as a 
refuge from the misfoi tunes of life, or as a relief 
from the fatigues of satiated pleasures ? Yes, all 
men, from the sordid schemer who daily sinks un- 
der the weight of his labours, to the proud statesman 
Intoxicated by the incense of popular applause, ex- 
perience the desire of terminating their precarious 
career ; every bosom feels an anxiety for repose ; 
every mind fondly wishes to steal from the vortex 
of a busy and unquiet life, to enjoy tranquility in 
the Solitude of retirement. Under the peaceful 
shades of Solitude, the mind of man regenerates, 
and his faculties acquire new force ; it is there alone 
that the happy can enjoy the fullness of felicity, or 
the miserable forget his woe j it is there that the 



FRENCH TRANSLATOR, V 

bosom of sensibility experiences its most delicious 
emotions ; that creative genius frees itself from the 
shackles of Society, and darts forth the warmest 
rays of imagination : all the ideas of our minds, eve- 
ry inclination of our hearts, lean toward this desired 
goal. " There is indeed," says a sensible English- 
man, " scarcely any writer who has not celebrated 
" the happiness of rural privacy, and delighted him- 
" self and his readers with the melody of birds, the 
" whisper of groves, and the murmur of rivulets ; 
" nor any man eminent for extent of capacity, or 
¥ greatness of exploits, that has not left behind him 
" some memorials of lonely wisdom and silent dig- 
" nity." 

The part of the work to which I am most attach- 
ed is particularly addressed to the attention of 
youth ; it is to them that it will perhaps be most 
useful, and I fondly flatter myself that to their minds 
it will also afford the highest pleasure. . Young my- 
self, and sensible of the truly beautiful, I felt myself 
led on by the charms of a work, which elevated my 
mind, warmed my imagination, and touched my 
heart. May it produce the same effects upon my 
young countrymen ! May it, notwithstanding the 
weakness of this translation, inspire them with the 
same enthusiasm ! At least, I may venture to ex- 
claim in the words of M. Zimmermann, " Dear and 
" virtuous young man, into whose hands this book 
" perchance may fall, receive with affection the good 
« which it contains, and reject all that is cold and 
" bad ; all that does not touch and penetrate the 
" heart : but if you thank me for the performance, 
" if you bless me, if you acknowledge that I have 
" enlightened your mind, corrected your manners, 
" and tranquilized your heart, I shall congratulate 
" myself on the sincerity of my intentions, and think 
A 2 



VI PREFACE OF THE 

" my labours richly rewarded. If, in pursuing it, 
u you find yourself able to justify your inclination 
" for a wise and active Solitude, your aversion from 
" those societies which only serve to destroy time, 
M and your repugnance to employ vile and shameful 
" means in the acquisition of riches, I shall ask no 
" other benediction for my work." 



It will perhaps appear surprising that, entertain- 
ing so high a veneration for the writings of M. 
Zimmermann, I could permit myself with profane 
hand to retrench the greater part of his work : per- 
mit me therefore to disclose the reasons which 
influenced my conduct. Four large volumes on 
the subject of Solitude appeared to me to be a 
work too arduous for the generality of French rea- 
ders, and particularly for French booksellers to 
undertake ; for even this short Essay, without the 
recommendation of M. Le Tourneur, could not 
have acquired the honour of the /tress. Besides, al- 
though the whole work bears the marks of genius, 
and the two first volumes, which principally treat of 
monastic Solitude, contain without doubt many judi- 
cious reflections, yet they are perhaps rather too 
long for many readers, and are even capable of dis- 
pleasing some, whose narrow prejudices might be 
shocked by the liberal sentiments of the Author, 
who has appealed to the decision of reason alone 
upon the subject of certain abuses rendered sacred 
by the motives from which they proceeded. Not- 
withstanding this, however,* I could not determine 
to retrench the work before I had consulted several 
men of letters, of enlightened understandings, and 
in high favor with the public : No, I never could 
have ventured, on my own judgment, to have prun- 
ed any part of a work which has acquired the uni- 



FRENCH TRANSLATOR. vll 

versal approbation of the German Empire*, and ob* 
tained the suffrages of an Empress celebrated for 
the superior brilliancy of her mind, and who has 
signified her approbation in the most flattering 
manner. 

On the 26th of January, 1785, a Courier, dis- 
patched by the Russian Envoy at Hamburgh, 
presented M. Zimmermann with a. small casket, in 
the name of her Majesty the Empress of Russia. 
The casket contained a ring, enriched with dia- 
monds of an extraordinary size and lustre, and a gold 
medal, bearing on one side the portrait of the Em- 
press, and on the other the date of the happy 
reformation of the Russian Empire. This present 
the Empress accompanied with a letter written in 
her own hand, containing these remarkable words : 
" To M. Zimmermann, Counsellor of State and 
" Physician to his Britannic Majesty, to thank him 
" for the excellent precepts he has given to mankind 
" in his Treatise upon Solitude." 

* The author is already inserted in the collection of 
Clastic Authors printed at Carlsrube. 



SOLITUDE 

CONSIDERED, WITH 

RESPECT TO ITS INFLUENCE 

UPON 

THE MIND AND THE HEART. 



CHAPTER THE FIRST. 
INTRODUCTION. 



IN this unquiet and tumultuous scene of life, sur- 
rounded by the restraints of ceremony, the urgencies 
of business, the shackles of society, and in the evening 
of my days, I feel no delight in tracing back the 
images of pleasures that pass so transiently away : my 
soul dwells with higher satisfaction on the memory of 
those happy days of my youth, when solitude was my 
sole amusement ; when I knew no place more agree- 
able than the sequestered cloister and the silent cell, 
the lonely mountain and the sublimely awful grove ; 
nor any pleasures more lively than those I experienced 
in conversing with the dead. 

I love to recal to my mind the cool and silent scenes 
of Solitude ; to oppose them to the heat and bustle of 
the world j to meditate on those advantages which 



id 



THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 



the great and good of every age have acknowledged 
they possess, though perhaps too seldom experienced ; 
to reflect on. the powerful . consolations they afford 
when grief corrodes the mind, when disease afflicts 
the body, when the number of our years bends us to 
the ground ; to contemplate, in short, the benign in- 
fluence of Solitude upon all the troubles of the heart. 

Solitude is that state in which the soul freely re- 
signs itself to its own reflections. The sage, therefore, 
who banishes from his mind all recollection of the 
objects by which he is surrounded, and retires within 
himself, is not less solitary than he who forsakes soci- 
ety, and devotes himself entirely to the calm enjoy- 
ments of a lonely life. 

In retirement every man surrenders himself without 
restraint or limitation, to the guidance of his own ideas, 
and implicitly adopts the sentiments which his taste? 
temper, inclination and genius, inspire. 

Observe the shepherds of those extensive deserts % 
one chaunts the beauty which captivates his soul - r 
another moulds the clay into a rustic vase ; the 
surrounding charms of nature form the sole delight 
and admiration of a third ; while a fourth investigates 
the precepts of the moral law, or contemplates the 
sublime truths of our holy religion. If they were 
respectively to meet a lovely shepherdess beneath the 
shades of their retirement * seated oirthe borders of 
some gently flowing stream, the heart of each might 
perhaps become the slave of love ; but deprived of all 
that is dear to man, and doomed to taste involuntary 
Solitude, the best resource for each is to resign him- 
self to the dictates of his inclination ; a resource to 
which every well-disposed and virtuous mindmaycon- 
stantly resort without dismay or danger. 

Man in a state of perfect freedom possesses an in- 
nate right to follow the suggestions of his fancy : some 
are delighted by the soft melody of the nightingale* 



QN THE MIND AND THE HEART. 11 

l^hile others listen with equal pleasure to the hideous 
shriekings of the owl. Some there are to whom even 
the visits of friendship are displeasing ; who, to avoid 
the painful intercourse, confine themselves eternally at 
home, and consume their hours in writing books, ox 
killing flies. v 

The poor dejected heart constantly attaches itself 
to some favorite object, as far at least as circumstances 
and situation will permit, from which it draws its con- 
solation and support. Roaming through the cloisters 
of the Magdalene Convent, at Hidelsheim, I was 
surprised to observe an aviary of Canary birds in the 
cell of a Religeuse. A Brabancon gentleman, fear- 
ful of the effects of cold, and having the same aversion 
from women that certain persons are said to feel from 
mice, lived five and twenty years at Brussels, im- 
mured within his house, without any other amusement 
than that of collecting a magnificent cabinet of paint- 
ings and pictures. 

Under the confinement even of the dungeon itself, 
men, deprived forever of their liberty, endeavour to 
beguile the solitude in which they are forced to live, 
by devoting their thoughts, as far as they are able, to 
those pursuits which afford them the highest pleasure. 
The Swiss philosopher, Michael Ducret, measured 
the height of the Alps during his confinement in the 
prison of Aarburg, in the canton of Berne, in 
Swisserland ; and while Baron be Trenck, a 
prisoner* in the tower of Magdebourg, was every 
moment anxiously employed in forming projects to 
effect his escape, General Walrave, the compan- 
ion of his captivity, contentedly passed his time in the 
feeding of chickens. 

The term Solitude does not, I conceive, always 
import a total absence from the world. Sometimes it 
conveys to my mind the idea of dwelling in a convent, 
$r a country village : sometimes I understand it t.Q 



1$ THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

mean the library of a man of learning : and sometimes 
an occasional retreat from the tumults of active life. 

Men are frequently Solitary without being alone ; 
for to constitute a state of Solitude, it is sufficient if 
the mind be entirely absorbed by those ideas which 
its own reflections create. 

The haughty Baron, proud of the distinctions of 
birth, feels himself alone in every society whose mem- 
bers are not ennobled by an equal number of titles 
derived through a long line of hereditary descents. A 
profound reasoner is, in general, Solitary at the tables 
of the witty and the gay. The mind, even amidst 
the clamours of a popular assembly, may withdraw its 
attention from the surrounding objects, may retire as 
effectually within itself, may become as Solitary as a 
monk in his monastery, or a hermit in his cell. In 
short, Solitude may be as easily attained amidst the 
gayest circles of the most brilliant city, as in the unin- 
terrupted silence of a poor, deserted village ; at 
London and at Paris, as well as on the plains of 
Thebais or in the desartsof Nitria. 

A treatise therefore upon the real advantages to be 
derived from Solitude, appeared to me a proper means 
to assist men in their search after happiness. The 
fewer external resources men possess, the greater ef- 
forts they make to discover in themselves the power 
of being happy ; and the more they are enabled to 
part, without regret, from their connections with each 
other, the nearer they most certainly approach to true 
felicity. The pleasures of the world appear to me to 
be unworthy of the avidity with which they are pui> 
sued ; but it is equally true, that upon a serious ex^ 
amination, all those Catholic notions, once so celebrated, 
of a total seclusion from the world and its concerns, ap* 
pear altogether impracticable, and equally absurd. To 
render the mind independent of human assistance, and 
£each it to rely entirely upon the strength of its own 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEAKT. IS 

powers, is, I acknowledge, a noble exertion ; but it is 
certainly as meritorious, to learn the art of living happi- 
ly in the bosom of society, and of rendering ourselves 
useful and agreeable to the rest of mankind. 

While, therefore, I describe the allurements of 
Solitude, I shall endeavour to warn my readers 
against those dangerous excesses into which some of 
its disciples have been betrayed ; excesses as repug- 
nant to the voice of reason, as they are condemned by 
the precepts of our holy religion. 

Happily to avoid all the dangers by which my sub- 
ject is surrounded, to sacrifice nothing to prejudice, to 
advance nothing in violation of truth, to obtain the ap- 
probation of the peaceful disciples of reason and philo- 
sophy, will be my anxious endeavour ; and if affliction 
shall derive a ray of consolation from my labours, if 
melancholy, in forgetting the horrours of its situation, 
shall raise its dejected head to bless me ; if I shall be 
able to convince the innocent votaries of rural retire- 
ment, that the springs of pleasure soon dry up in the 
heat of the metropolis, that the heart remains cold and 
senseless in the midst of all its noisy and factitious joys ; 
if they shall learn to feel the superior pleasures of a 
country life, become sensible of the variety of resources 
which they afford against idleness and vexation ; what 
purity of sentiment, what peaceful thoughts, what un- 
fading happiness, the view of verdant meads, the sight 
of numerous flocks and herds quitting the fertile mea- 
dows on the close of day, instil into the mind • 
what ineffable delight the sublime beauty of a wild ro- 
mantic country, interspersed with distant cottages, and. 
occupied by freedom and content, ravishes the soul ; 
how much more readily, in short, we forget all the pains 
and troubles of a wounded heart, on the borders of a gen- 
tle stream, than amidst the concourse of deceitful joy s, 
so fatally followed in the courts of princes, my task will 
be accomplished, and all my wishes amply gratfied I 

B 



14 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

CHAPTER THE SECOND. 

TEE GENERAL ADVANTAGES OF SOLITUDE. 



S< 



IOLITUDE engages the affections of men, when- 
ever it. holds up a picture of tranquility to their view. 
The doleful and monotonous sound of the clock of a 
sequestered monastery, the silence of nature in a still 
night, the pure air on the summit of a high mountain*, 
the thick darkness of an ancient forest, the sight of a 
temple fallen into ruins, inspire the soul with a soft 
melancholy, and banish all recollection of the world 
and its concerns. But the man who cannot hold a 
friendly correspondence with his own heart, who de- 
rives no comfort from the reflections of his mind, who 
dreads the idea of meditation, and is fearful of passing 
a single moment with himself, looks with an equal 
eye on solitude and on death. He endeavours to en- 
joy all the voluptuousness which the world affords ; 
drains the pernicious cup of pleasure to its dregs ; and 
until the dreadful moment approaches, when he be- 
holds his nerves shattered, and all the powers of his 
soul destroyed, he has not courage to make the Relay- 
ed confession, " lam twed o/the world, and all its 
idle follies^ and now prefer the mournful shade of the 
cypress to the intoxication of its noisy pleasures and 
tumultuous j ' oys ." 

The dangers to which a life of Solitude is exposed, 
(for even in Solitude many real dangers exist) afford 
no substantial argument against it ; as by a judicious 
employment of the hours of activity and repose, and a 
proper vigilance upon the desires of the heart,- they 
may be easily eluded. The adventurous navigator, 
when acquainted with the signal of approaching dan- 
gers, and the situation of those rocks and shoals which 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. \5 

threaten his safety/, no longer fears the perils to which 
he was before exposed. The advantages of Solitude 
are still less disproved by the complaints of those who, 
feeling a continual desire to escape from themselves, 
are incapable of every enjoyment but what the world 
affords ; to whom retirement and tranquility appear 
vapid and fatiguing ; and who, unconscious of any- 
nobler pleasure than that of paying or receiving visits, 
have, of course, no idea of the delights of Solitude. 

It is, therefore, only to those distinguished beings 
who can resort to their own bosoms for an antidote 
against disquiet, who are fearless of the numerous sac- 
rifices which virtue may demand, whose souls are 
endowed with sufficient energy to drive away the 
dread of being alone, and whose hearts are susceptible 
of the pure and tranquil delights of domestic felicity, 
that I pretend to recommend the advantages of Soli- 
tude. The miserable being, in whose bosom the 
corruptions of the world have already destroyed these 
precious gifts of nature ; who knows no other pleasure, 
is sensible to no other happiness than what cards or 
the luxury of a richly-furnished table afford ; who 
disdains all exercise of the understanding, thinks all 
delicacy of sentiment unnatural, and, by a brutality al- 
most inconceivable, laughs at the sacred name of 
sensibility ; must be lost to virtue, and utterly incapa- 
ble of pleasure from any operations of his own mini. 

Philosophers, and ministers of the gospel, if they 
were entirely to deprive themselves of the pleasures of 
society, and to shun, with rigid severity, the honest 
comforts and rational amusements of life, would, with- 
out doubt, essentially injure the interests of wisdom 
and virtue ; but there are not, at present, many pre- 
ceptors who carry their doctrines to this extent : on 
the contrary, there exists a multitude, both in the 
country and the town, to whom solitude would be in- 
supportable, who shamefully devote their time to noisy 



16 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

dissipations and tumultuous pleasures, altogether in- 
consistent with their characters and functions. The 
celebrated xra has passed, when a life of retirement 
and contemplation was alone esteemed, and when the 
approaches to heaven were measured in proportion as 
the mind receded from its attachments to the world. 

After having examined the influence of Solitude 
upon the general habits of life, and upon those ordina- 
ry pleasures which are pursued with such unceasing 
avidity, I shall shew, in the first division of this chap- 
ter, that it enables man to live independent and alone ; 
that there is no misfortune it cannot alleviate, no sor- 
row that it will not soften ; that it adds dignity to his 
character, and gives fresh vigour to the powers of his 
mind ; that he cannot, in any other situation, acquire 
so perfect a knowledge of himself ; that it enlarges 
the sphere of attention, and ripens the seeds of judge- 
ment : in short, that it is from the influence of Solitude 
alone, that man can hope for the fruition of unbroken 
pleasures, and never-fading felicity* 

The enjoyments of active life may easily be 
blended with the most ordinary advantages of Soli- 

tuae j aim we snail soon oiscover upon wnat founda* 
tions the opinions of those philosophers are built, who 
maintain, that the tumults of the world, and the dissi- 
pation of its votaries, are incompatible with the calm 
exercise of reason, the decisions of a sober judgement, 
the investigation of truth, and the study of the human 
heart. 

The legion of fantastic fashions to which a man of 
pleasure is obliged to sacrifice his time, impairs the 
rational faculties of his mind, and destroys the native 
energies of his soul. Forced continually to lend him- 
self to the performance of a thousand little triflings, a 
thousand mean absurdities, he becomes by habit frivo- 
lous and absurd. The face of things no longer wears 
its true and genuine aspect j and his depraved tastQ 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. IT 

loses all relish for rational entertainment or substantial 
pleasure. The infatuation seizes on his brain, and his 
corrupted heart teems with idle fancies and vain ima- 
ginations. These illusions, however, through which 
the plainest object comes distorted to his view, might 
easily be dispelled. Accustomed to a lonely life, and 
left to reftect in calmness and sobriety, during the si- 
lence of the Solitary hour, upon the false joys and 
deceitful pleasures which the parade of visiting, and the 
glare of public entertainments, offer to our view, he 
would soon perceive and candidly acknowledge their 
nothingness and insipidity : soon would he behold the 
pleasures of the world in their true colours, and feel 
tmit he had blindly wandered in pursuit of phantoms ; 
possessing something in appearance, but nothing in 
reality. 

Languor and dissatisfaction are ever the inevitable 
consequences of this ardent pursuit of entertainments 
and divei -sions. lie who has drained the cup of pleas- 
ure to its last drop ; who is obliged to confess that his 
hopes are fled, unci that the world no longer contains 
an object worthy of his pursuit ; who feels disappoint- 
ments and disgust mingled with all his enjoyments ; 
who seems astonished at his own insensibility ; who 
no longer possesses the magic of the enchantress 
Imagination to gild and decorate the scene ; calls in 
vain to his assistance the daughters of sensuality : 
their caresses can no longer charm his dark and 
melancholy mind ; the soft and syren song of luxury no 
longer can dispel the cloud of discontent which hovers 
round his head. 

Behold yon weak old man, his mind enervated, and 
his constitution gone, running after pleasures that he 
no more must taste. The airs of gaiety which he af- 
fects, render him ridiculous. His attempts to shine 
expose him to derision. His endeavours to display 
tut wit and eloquegce of youth, betray him into the 
* B 2 



18 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

garrulity of old age. His conversation, filled with 
repetitions and fatiguing narrative, creates disgust, and 
only forces the smile of pity from the lips of his youth - 
ful rivals. To the eye of wisdom, however, that saw 
him through all the former periods of his life, spark- 
ling in all the circles of folly, and rioting in the noisy 
rendezvous of extravagance and vice, his character 
always appeared the same. 

The wise man, in the midst of the most tumultuous 
pleasures, frequently retires within himself, and si- 
lently compares what he might do with what he is 
doing. Surrounded even by the excesses of intoxica- 
tion, he associates oniy with those warm and generous 
Bonis, whose highly elevated minds are drawn towards 
each other, by wishes the most virtuous, and senti- 
ments the most sublime. The silence-of Solitude has 
more than once given birth to enterprizes of the great- 
est importance and utility ; and some of the most 
celebrated actions of mankind were, perhaps, first 
inspired among the sounds of music, or conceived in 
the mazes of the dance. Sensible and elevated minds 
never commune more closely with themselves, than 
in those places of public resort in which the low and 
the vulgar, abandoned to the caprice of fashion and 
the illusions of sensuality, become incapable of reflect- 
ion, and blindly sufYer themselves to be overwhelmed 
by the torrent of folly-and distraction. 

Vacant souls are always burthensome to their pos- 
sessors ; and it is tire weight of this burthen that im- 
pels them incessantly in the pursuits of dissipation for 
relief. The irresistible inclination by which they are 
carried continually abroad, the anxiety with which 
they search for society, the trifles on which from day 
to day they spend their time, announce the emptiness 
of their minds, and the frivolous affections of their 
hearts. Possessing no resources within themselves, 
they are forced to rove abroad; aaA- fasten upon every 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEAR.T. 19 

object that presents itself to their view, until they find % 
the wished-for harbour, to protect them against the 
attacks of discontent, and prevent them from reflecting 
on their ignoble condition, 

The enjoyments of sense, therefore, are thus inde- 
fatigably followed only as a mean of escaping from 
themselves. They seize with avidity upon every ob- 
ject that promises to occupy the present hour agreea- 
bly, and provide entertainment for the day that is 
passing over their heads : this must ever be: some 
external object, some new phantom, something that 
shall prevent them from remaining with themselves. 
The man whose mind is sufficiently fertile to invent, 
hour after hour, new schemes of pleasure ; to open, 
day after day, fresh sources of amusemt nt for the lazy 
and luxurious, is a valuable companion indeed ; he is 
their best, their only friend : not that they are them- 
selves destitute of ability to find such employment as 
might prevent the total sacrifice of time, and relieve 
their bosoms from the burthen of themselves ; but 
having always indulged the inclination of being led 
continually from one new object to another, the call of 
pleasure becomes the first want and most ardent wish 
of their lives. From that moment, they insensibly 
lose the power of acting from themselves, and depend 
for every thing on those about them, without being 
able to direct or determine the impressions they ought 
to receive. This is the reason why the iuch, who 
are seldom acquainted with any other pleasures than 
those of sense, are, in general, the most miserable of 
men. 

The nobility and courtiers of France think their en- 
joyments appear vain and ridiculous only to those who 
have not an opportunity of partaking them ; but I am 
of a different opinion. 

Returning one Sunday from Trianon to Ver- 
sailles, I perceived at a distance, a number of people 



20 THE INFLUENCE 02 1 SOLITUDE 

assembled upon the terrace of the castle ; and on a 
nearer approach, I beheld Louis the Fifteenth, 
surrounded by all his court* at the windows of the 
palace. A man very richly dressed, with a large pair 
of branching antlers fastened on his head, whom they 
called the stag, was pursued by about a dozen others, 
who composed the pack. The pursued and the pur- 
suers leaped into the great canal, scrambled out again, 
and ran about to all parts, while the air resounded wkh 
the acclamations of clapping of hands, to encourage 
the continuance of the sport. " What can all this 
mean i n said I to a Frenchman who stood near me. 
" Sir," he replied with a very serious countenance, 
« it is for the entertainment of the court." 

The most obscure and indigent persons are certainly 
happier than these sovereigns of the world, and their 
slavish retinue, when reduced to the necessity of adopt- 
ing such mean and abject modes of entertainment. 

The courtier, when he appears at a levee, out- 
wardly affects the face of joy, while his heart is 
inwardly a prey to the most excruciating sorrows ; 
and speaks with the liveliest interest of transactions in 
which he had no concern ; but perhaps it is necessary 
to his consequence that he should raise false appear- 
ances to the minds of his visitors, who, on their side, 
impose equally on him in return. The success, alas ! 
©fall his schemes affords him no other pleasure than 
to see his apartments crowded with company, whose 
only merit and recommendation, in his eyes, is a string 
cf hereditary titles, of perhaps no very remote antiqui- 
ty, or honorable origin. 

On this privation of the light of human reason do 
the felicities of a worldly life most frequently depend. 
From this dark source, spring the inordinate pride of 
the haughty nobie s and the no less unbounded ambi- 
tion of the simple mechanic. Hence arise the disdain 
of some, the haughtiness of others, and the folly of all, 



ON TtiE MIND AND tfHE HEART, 21 

To men of dissipated minds, who dread beyond 
every other fear, the painful intrusion of a rational 
sentiment, these numerous and noisy places of public 
resort, appear like temples dedicated to their idol, 
pleasure. He who seeks happiness en the couch of 
indolence ; who expends all the activity of his mind, 
all the energies of his heart, upon trifling objects ; who 
suffers vain and frivolous pursuits to absorb his time, 
to engage his attention, to lock up all the functions of 
his soul, cannot patiently endure the idea of being for 
one moment by himself. 

Direful condition ! Is there then no occupation 
whatsoever, no useful employment, no rational recre- 
ation sufficiently high and dignified for such a charac« 
ter ? €s he of necessity reduced to the afflicting 
situation of not being able to perform a good and vir- 
tuous action, during the intervals of suspended 
pleasure ? Can he render no services to friendship I 
to his country ! to himself ? Are there no poor and 
miserable beings, to whose bosoms he might afford 
a charitable comfort and relief ? Is it, in short, im- 
possible lor such a character to become, in anv way ? 

more wise or virtuous tnan ne was betore i 

The powers of the human soul are more extensive 
than they are in general imagined to be ; and he who, 
urged by inclination or compelled by necessity, most 
frequently exerts them, will soon find that the highest 
felicities of which our nature is capable, reside entire - 
ly within ourselves. The wants of life are, for the 
greater part, merely artificial ; and although sensual 
objects most efficaciously contribute to our pleasure 
and content, it is not because the enjoyment of them is 
absolutely necessary, but because they have been ren- 
dered desirable by the effect of habit* The gratifica- 
tions they afford easily persuade us, that the posses- 
sion of them is essential to happiness ; but if we had 
fortitude tQ resist their charms, and courage to Joo^. 



32 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

within our own bosoms for that felicity which we so 
anxiously expect to derive from external objects, we 
should frequently find a much greater variety of re- 
sources there than all the objects of sense are capable 
of affording. 

Men of superficial minds may indeed derive some 
amusements from assemblies, to which the company 
in general resort merely to see and to be seen. But 
how many women of fashion expire in such assem- 
blies, under all the mortification of disappointed vani- 
ty ? how many neglected wits sullenly retire into some 
obscure corner of the room ? The mind, on entering 
the circles of the great and gay, is apt to flatter itself 
too highly with hopes of applause ; to wait wUh too 
much anxiety for the promised pleasure. Wit, co- 
quetry, sensuality, it is true, are at these meetings, 
frequently exercised with considerable success. Eve- 
ry candidate displays the little talent he possesses, to 
the best advantage ; and the least informed are not un- 
frequently considered the most shining characters*-— 
The eye, however, may occasionally be gratified by the 
sight of objects really agreeable ; the ear may listen 
to observations truly flattering. Lively thoughts and 
sensible remarks, now and then prevail. Charac- 
ters equally amiable and interesting, occasionally mix 
among the groupe. We may form acquaintance with 
men of distinguished merit, whom we should not oth- 
erwise have had ah opportunity of knowing ; and meet 
with women of estimable qualities and irreproachable 
conduct, whose reined conversation ravishes the mind 
with the same delight that their exquisite beauty cap- 
tivates the heart. 

But by what a number of painful sensations must 
this change of pleasures be purchased i He whom a 
silent sorrow, a secret discontent, a rational disposition 
prevents from mixing in the common dissipations of 
Jife ; cannot see without a sigh the gay conceit, the airy 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 23 

confidence, the blind arrogance, and the bold loquacity, 
■with which these votaries of worldly pleasures proclaim 
a felicity, that leads them, almost inevitably to their 
ruin. 

It is indeed, irresistably laughable to observe the 
excessive joy of so many men in place, the absurd airs 
of so many old dowagers, the presumptuous and ri&ic* 
ulcus fopperies of so many hoary -headed children : 
but who, alas 1 is there, that will not grow tired even 
of the pleasantest comedy, by seeing it too frequently ? 
He, therefore, who has often been an eye-witness of 
these scenes, who has often yawned with fatigue in 
these temples of pleasure, and is convinced that they 
exhibit rather the illusion and appearance than the 
substance and reality of pleasure, becomes sad and sor- 
rowful in the midst of all their joys, and hastily retires 
to domestic privacy, to taste of pleasures in which there 
is no deceit ; pleasures, which leave neither disquiet- 
ude nor dissatisfaction behind them. 

An invitation to the board of Luxury, where Dis- 
ease with leaden sceptre is known to preside, where 
painful truths are blurted in the ears of those who hop- 
ed they were concealed, where reproach and calumny 
fall without discrimination on the best and worst of 
characters, is in the estimation of the world, conceived 
to confer the highest honour, and the greatest pleasure. 
But he who feels the divine energies of the soul, turns 
with abhorrence from those societies which tend to di- 
minish or impair their operations. To him the sim- 
plest fare, with freedom and content, in the bosoms of 
an affectionate family, is ten thousand times more 
agreeable than the rarest dainty and the richest wine, 
with a society where politeness imposes a silent atten- 
tion to some vain wit, from whose lips nothing but fa- 
tiguing nonsense ever proceeds. 

Confidence unlimited, sentiments mutually inter- 
changed and equally sincere, are the only sources from 



24 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

which the true pleasures of society can spring. The 
spiritless and crowded assemblies of the world, where 
a round of low and little pleasures fills the hour of en- 
tertainment, and prids only aspires to display a pomp 
of dress and levity of behaviour, may perhaps afford 
a glimpse of joy to light and thoughtless minds, eager- 
ly impatient to remove the weight which every vacant 
hour accumulates. But men of reason and reflection, 
who instead of sensible conversation, instead of any ra- 
tional amusement, find only a dull unvaried jargon, a 
tiresome round of compliments, feel aversion from 
these temples of delight, and resort to them with cold- 
ness, dissatisfaction, and disgust. 

Plow tiresome do all the pleasures of the world ap- 
pear, when compared with the happiness of a faithful, 
tender, and enlightened friendship ! How joyfully do 
we shake of the shackles of society for that high and 
intimate connection of the soul, where our inclinations 
are free, our feelings genuine, our sentiments unbias- 
sed ; where a mutual confidence of thoughts and ac- 
tions, of pleasures and of pains, uninterruptedly pre- 
vails ; where the heart is led with joy along the path 
of virtue, and the mind conducted by happiness into the 
bowers of truth ; where every thought is anticipated 
before it escapes from the lips ; where advice, consola- 
tion, succour, are reciprocally given and received in all 
the accidents and misfortunes of life ! The soul, thus 
animated by the charm of friendship, springs from its 
sloth and apathy, and views the irradiating beams of 
hope breaking on its repose. Casting a retrospective 
eye on the time that has passed, the happy pair mu- 
tually exclaim with the tenderest emotions, " Oh ! 
" what pleasures have we not already experienced, 
" what joys have we not already felt ?" Does the tear 
of sorrow steal down the cheek of the one ? the other, 
with affection wipes it tenderly away. The deepest 
sorrows of the one are felt with equal poignancy by 



QT$ THE MIND ANB THE HEART. 55 

£he other : but what sorrow can resist the consolation 
which flows from an intercourse of hearts so tenderly, 
so intimately, so closely united ! Day after day, they 
communicate to each other all that they have seen, all 
that they have heard, all they feel and every thing 
they know. Time flies before them on his swiftest 
pinions. The ear is never tired of the gratification 
of listening to each other's conversation. The only 
misfortune of which they have any fear, is the greatest 
they can possibly experience, the misfortune of ab« 
sence, separation, and death . 

Possessed of such refined felicity, it must not be at- 
tributed to austerity of character, or incivility of man- 
ners, but to a venial error of imagination, if the inter- 
courses of ordinary minds no longer charm us ; if we 
become insensible to their indifference, and careless of 
their aversion ; if in consequence of the superiority of 
our joys we no longer mix in the noisy pleasures of 
the world, and shun all society which has numbers on- 
ly for its recommendation. 

But it is the lot of human bliss to be unstable. Of- 
tentimes, alas ! when we conceive our enjoyments 
most certain and secure, an unforeseen and sudden 
blow strikes, even in our very arms, the unhappy vic- 
tim of its fate. On such an event all the pleasure of 
our lives appears to be forever extinguished ; the sur- 
rounding objects seem desert and forlorn ; every thing 
we behold excites terror and dismay. The arms of 
friendship are in vain extended to embrace the friend 
that is no more ; in vain the voice of fondness articu- 
lates the beloved name. The step, the well-known 
step seems suddenly to strike upon our listening ear ; 
but reflection interposes, and the fancied sounds are 
heard no more : all is hushed, still, and lifeless : we- 
are rendered almost insensible of existence. Solitude 
appears on every side, and the bleeding heart with- 
draws the attention of the mind from every living 



£5 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

object. The wearied spirits, in the hour of dejection, 
persuade us that affection is gone, and that we are no 
longer capable of loving, or of being beloved ; and to 
a heart that has once tasted the sympathies of love, life 
without affection, is death the most horrible. The 
unfortunate being, therefore, who has experienced 
this misery, is inclined to live in Solitude, and die 
alone. In these reflective moments, in this sudden 
transition from the height of happiness to the deepest 
misery, no person seems anxious to offer him the 
smallest consolation, to participate*^ his sufferings, of 
to be capable of forming an adequate idea of his dis* 
tress : the grief, indeed, which such a loss inflicts* 
cannot be conceived until it has been felt. 

It is, however, under circumstances like these that 
Solitude enjoys its highest triumph : It is here that 
all the advantages that result from it may be fully 
experienced ; for affliction has no wounds to which* 
when wisely applied, it will not give immediate easei 
and in the event completely cure. 

The wounds of affliction, it is true, admit only of a 
slow and gradual remedy. The ait of living alone 
requires so much initiation before it can be acquired, 
is subject to such a variety of accidents, and depends 
so much upon situations suitable to the bent of parti* 
cular characters, that the mind must have attained a 
high degree of maturity for Solitude, before effects so 
considerable and advantagous can be expected from it ; 
but he who has acquired sufficient vigour to break the 
galling chains of prejudice, and from his earliest 
youth has felt esteem, and fondness for the pleasures 
of retirement, will not, under such circumstances, b« 
embarrassed in his choice. From the moment he 
perceives himself indifferent to the objects which sur* 
round him, and that the gaieties of public society have 
lost their charms, he will then rely on the powers of 
his soul, and never be less alone than in the company 
of himself. 



«N THE MIND AND THE HEAR*. 27 

' Men of genius are frequently condemned to em- 
ployments as disagreeable to the temper of their minds, 
as a nauseous medicine is to an empty stomach* 
Forced to toil upon some dry and disgusting subject, 
confined to a particular spot, and utterly "unable to 
release themselves from the troublesome and imped- 
ing yoke, such characters seldom expect tranquility 
on this side of the grave ; for deprived of the oppor- 
tunities of engaging in the dissipations of life, every 
object which the world presents to their view encreasefc 
their disgust. It is not for them, they exclaim, 
that the young zephyrs ope i the budding foliage with 
their caressing breath : that the feathered choir put 
forth, in enlivening strains, their rural songs ; that 
odoriferous flowers deck the enamelled meads. But 
leave these complainants to themselves, give them 
their liberty and liesure, and you would soon observe 
the native enthusiasm of their minds regenerate, and 
see them in the highest region, soaring with the bol3 
wing and penetrating eye of the bird of Jove. 

If Solitude be capable of dissipating griefs of thi& 
complexion, what effect will it not produce on th« 
minds of men who have the opportunity of retiring, at 
pleasure, to its friendly shades, who only seek for the 
enjoyment of a pure air, and whose only desire is do- 
mestic felicity ? When Antisthenes was asked what 
service he had received from philosophy ; he answer- 
ed, " It has taught me to subdue myself." Popb 
says, that he never laid his head on his pillow without 
reflecting, that the most important lesson of life was 
to learn the art of being happy within himself. It 
seems to me, that all those who are capable of living 
contentedly at home, and of loving every object by 
which they are surrounded, even to the dog and cat, 
have found what Pope looked for. 

Those pleasures and dissipations which are sought 
after with so much eagerness and anxiety, have in 



28 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

truth, the effect of producing the most serious re^ 
flections in our minds, when we commune with 
ourselves. It is then that we learn in what the true 
felicity of life properly consists, whether in the pos- 
session of those external objects which we have no 
power either to alter or reform, or in a due and proper 
regulation of ourselves. It is then that we begin to 
perceive how false and faithless those flattering illu- 
sions prove, which seem to promise us so much hap- 
piness. A lady, possessed of youth and beauty, wrote 
to me one evening, on returning from a celebrated ri- 
dotto, " You observed with what gaiety and content I 
14 quitted the scene. Believe me, I felt a void so pain- 
" fill in my breast at the sight of those factitious joys, 
K that I could willingly have torn the flowery decora- 
" tions from my dress." 

All the pleasures of the world are nothing 1 , if they 
do not render the heart more happy in itself, and tend 
to increase our domestic felicity. On the contrary, 
every species of misfortune, however accumulated, 
may be borne by those who are capable of enjoying 
the privacy of study, and the elegant recreation which 
books afford. To have obtained this resource, is al- 
ready to have made considerable advances towards 
happiness ; for it would be presumptuous to exact 
more from us, than an inclination to regulate the af- 
fections of the heart, and to controul the' passions of 
the mind. A celebrated philosopher, therefore, has 
with great judgment observed, that there is both pride 
and falsehood in pretending that man alone is capable 
of effecting; his own happiness. We are, however, 
most certainly capable of modifying the natural dispo- 
sitions of our souls ; we are capable of forming our 
tastes, varying our sentiments, directing our inclina- 
nations, of subduing even the passions themselves ; 
and we are then, not only less sensible of all the wants 
tf life, but feel even satisfaction under circumstance* 



Olt THE MIND AND THE HEART. 29 

which to others would appear grievous and intolera- 
ble. Health is, without doubt, one of the most pre- 
cious enjoyments man can possess ; and yet there are 
circumstances and situations, under which, even the 
privation of it may be accompanied with real tranqui- 
lity. How many times have I returned my thanks to 
the Great Disposer of human events, for an indisposi- 
tion which has confined me at home, and enabled me 
to invigorate the weakened functions of my soul in 
quietude and silence ; a happiness that receded as my 
indisposition quitted me. After having been obliged 
to drag through the streets of the metropolis every 
day of my life, during a number of years, with a fee- 
ble constitution, and weakened limbs, susceptible on 
feeling the smallest cold, to the same sensations as if 
knives were separating the flesh from the bone ; after 
experiencing, day after day, in the course of my pro- 
fessions, sorrows so afflicting, that I offered up the 
gratitude of my heart with tears of joy, when it pleas- 
ed the Almighty to afford me a moment of ease and 
quietude y it will not be wondered that any indisposi- 
tion which occasioned my confinement, should afford 
me inexpressible happiness. 

The physician who possesses the least sensibility, 
being continually employed in administering relief to 
the sufferings of others, must, without doubt, fre- 
quently forget his own ; but, alas ! how often also 
must he feel the honour of his situation, where he is 
summoned to exercise a power not within the reach of 
his art, and is obliged to attend, notwithstanding all 
the bodily and mental anguish he may personally feel. 
Under such circumstances, the disease which relieves 
the mind from the distraction of anxiety, is to me a 
soft repose, a pleasing Solitude ; provided peevish 
friends do not intrude, and politely disturb me with 
their fatiguing visits. In these moments, I pray the 
benediction of Heaven on those who neglect to oyer- 

c 2 



St THB INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

whelm me with their idle conversation, and, with the* 
kindest compassion, forget to disturb me by enquiries 
after my health. A single day, in which I can remain 
quietly at home, without being obliged to receive a 
visitor, and employ my mind on literary subjects, af- 
fords rn?, notwithstanding my bodily pain, more real 
pleasure than our women of quality and men of fashion 
ever felt, from all their feastings and entertainments. 

The diminution which our sufferings experience in 
Solitude, is in itself a considerable advantage ; for 
quietude of mind, to men whose duties depend on the 
public voice, from whom an indefatigable activity i3 
exacted, and who unavoidably pass their days in the 
midst of continued anxieties, is in effect transcendant 
felicity. 

The mind, whether of the ycung or of the old, no 
longer feels the fear of being alone, when it is capable 
of occupying itself in privacy, on some useful or 
agreeable subject. 

If the temper should be soured by ill-humour, we 
should endeavour to create a diversion of the mind, by 
reading with some fixed and particular design ; and it 
is impossible to read without deriving some advantage* 
provided we have a pen or pencil, ready to mark the 
new ideas as they occur, or the observations which 
illustrate and confirm those we already possess ; for 
\mless we apply what we learn to our own dispositions, 
or the characters of other men, study of any kind soon, 
becomes fatiguing : exercise, however, will easily 
Jead to this habit ; and then, reading is, perhaps, one 
of the most sure and certain remedies against lassitude 
and discontent. 

The mind having once acquired the habit of fixing 
its attention, is always capable of driving away painful 
and unpleasant ideas. The sight of a noble and inte* 
resting object, the study of a useful science, a picture- 
in which the various revolutions of society are history 



<>N THE MIND ANT* THE HEART. 31 

cally displayed, and the progress made in any particu* 
lar art, agreeably rivet attention, and banish the 
sorrows of the mind. 

Pleasures of this description, it is certain, greatly 
transcend all those wnich administer merely to the 
senses. I am aware, that in speaking of the pleasures 
of the mind, sublime meditation, the profound deduc- 
tions of reason, and the brilliant" effusions of fancy are 
in general understood ; but there are also others, for 
the perfect enjoyment of which, neither extensive 
knowledge nor extraordinary talents are necessary. 
These are the pleasures which result from activity 
and employment ; pleasures that are equally within 
the reach of the ignorant clown, or learne. hiioso- 
pher, and which produce enjoyments no less exquisite 4 
than those we first mentioned : the exertion of manual 
labour, therefore, ought nev@r to be despised. I am 
acquainted with gentlemen who are instructed in the 
mechanism of their own watches ; who are able to 
work as painters, locksmiths, carpenters ; and who 
are not only furnished with tools proper to almost 
every branch of trade, but know also how to use thern. 
Such characters never feel the least disquietude from 
the want of society, and are, in consequence, the 
happiest of men. 

The labours we experience in any art or science, 
from the recreation of it, and when carried to a cer- 
tain degree of perfection, render man social with him- 
self, and counterbalance the greatest moral evils. To 
conquer difficulties is to promote our pleasures ; and 
every time our efforts attain to a certain point, from 
whence we ct.n view with complacency the end of our 
labours, the soul feels an inexpressible tranquility and 
satisfaction, and, being contented within itself, seeks 
for no higher pleasure. 

The enjoyments of the heart are within the reach 
of all men who> free, easy and affectionate, are con- 



S2 the influence of soljtuds. 

tented with themselves, and pleased with those about 
them. Aias I how much superiour, therefore, for this 
reason, is the happiness which a country life affords, 
to that deceitful felicity which is affected in the courts 
of Princes, and in the brilliant circles of the great and 
gay ; a truth severely felt by men of worldly pleas- 
ure, and confessed by their frequent complaints of 
restlessness and languor — complaints unknown among 
the vallies of the Alps, or upon those mountains where 
innocence yet dwells, and which no visitor ever quitted 
without the tribute of a tear. 

The fatal poison, however, which lurks beneath the 
manners of luxurious cities, might easily be avoided, 
by renouncing the insipid life in which the inhabitants 
are engaged. Virtuous actions convey tranquility to 
the soul ; and a joy equally calm and permanent ac- 
companies that man into the closest recesses of retire- 
ment, whose mind is fixed upon discharging the duties 
of humanity. With what delight, also, do we dwell 
upon the recital of our school adventures, the wanton 
tricks of our youth ! The history of the early periods 
of our lives, '.he remembrance of our plays and pas- 
times, of the little pains and puerile wishes of our in- 
fancy, always recal to our minds the most agreeable 
ideas. Ah ! with what complacent smiles, with what 
soft regret, a venerable old man turns his eyes upon 
the happy sera w r hen the incarnation of youth animated 
all his joys ; when he entered into every enterprize 
with vigour, vivacity and courage ; when he sought 
difficulties only to display his powers in surmounting- 
them ! 

Let us contrast the character we formerly bore, with 
.that which we at present possess ; or, by giving a 
freer range to our ideas, let us rather cast our tho'ts 
upon the various events of which w T e have been wit- 
nesses, upon the means which the Almighty has 
thought proper to employ in the exaltation or debars?- 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. So 

ment of empires ; upon the rapid progress which the 
arts and sciences have made, within our own remem- 
brance ; upon the advancement of philosophy, and the 
retreat of prejudice ; upon the ascendancy which ig- 
norance and superstition stili maintain, notwithstand- 
ing the sublime efforts of genius to suppress them ; 
upon the bright irradiations of intellect, and the moral 
depravation of the heart ; and we shall soon perceive' 
the clouds of languor disappear, and tranquility, peace* 
and good humour prevail. 

The inexpressible felicity, that variety of delightful 
enjoyments, so superior to the gratifications of sense, 
which solitude affords to every reflecting mind, are ca«* 
pable of being relished at every period of our lives ; 
in the last decay of age, as well as in the earliest primer 
of youth. He who, to a vigourous constitution, a free 
spirit, an easy temper, has added the advantages of a 
cultivated understanding, will here experience, while 
his heart continues pure and his mind innocent, the 
highest and most unalterable pleasure. The love of 
exercise animates all the faculties of the soul, and in- 
creases the energies of nature. Employment is the 
first desire of every active mind. It is the silent con- 
sciousness of the superiority of our nature, of the 
force of our intellectual powers, of the high dignity of 
our character, which inspires great souls with that no- 
ble ardour which carries them to the true sublime.— r 
Constrained, by the duties of their situation, to mix in 
the intercourses of society ; obliged to submit, ia 
spite of their inclination, to the frivolous and fatiguing 
dissipations of the world ; it is in withdrawing from 
these tumultuous scenes, into the silence of medita- 
tion, that men become sensible of the divine efferves- 
ence of their souls, feel a wish to break their chains, to 
escape from the servility of pleasure, and from all the 
noisy and tumultuous joys in which they are engaged. 
We never feel with higher energy and satisfaction 



34 TtfE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

with greater comfort and cordiality, that we live, think, 
tire reasonable beings, self-active, free, capable of the 
most sublime exertions, and partaking of immortality, 
than in those moments when we shut the door against 
the intrusions of impertinence and fashion. 

There are few vexations so insupportable as those 
tasteless visits, those annoying partialities, by which a 
life of lazy opulence and wanton pleasure is occupied. 
" My thoughts,** says Rosseau, " will only come 
" when they please, and not when I cruise." Obliged', 
therefore, to wait for their arrival, the intrusion of a 
stranger, or even Uie visit of an acquaintance by whom 
he was not intimately known, was always dreadful to 
him. It was for this reason, alone, that this extraor- 
dinary character, who seldom experienced an hour of 
tranquility unaccompanied by pain, felt such petulant 
>n against the importunate civilities and emp~ 
ty compliments of common conversation, while he en- 
intercourse of sensible and well in- 
formed I i:;hest delight.* 

How soon, a] dignity of the human charac- 

ter becomes debased, by : ssociatrng with low and little 
minds ! How many rays of thought, precious rays I 
emanating immediately from the Deity, upon the mind 
of man, are extin^uishua by the noxious vapour of 
stagnated life ! But it is meditation and reflection 
that must give them birth, elevate them to the heights 
of genius, make them subsistent with the nature of 
the human mind, and confommble to the spirit of the 
human character. 

Virtues to which the soul cannot raise itself, ev- 
en in the most amiable of all societies, are frequently 

* M I never could endure" says Rosseau, u the empty ^ 
&nd unmeaning comfiliments of common conversation i . 
but from conversations useful or ingenious, I have aU 
ways derived the greatest pleasure, and have never refu~ 
ted to participate in them." 



©N THE MIND AND THE HEART. 35 

produced by solitude. Separated, by distance, from* 
our friends, we feel ourselves deprived of the compa- 
ny of those who are dearest to our hearts ; and to re- 
lieve the dreary void, we aspire to the most sublime 
efforts, and adopt the boldest resolutions. On the con- 
trary, while we are under the protecting care of friend- 
ship and of love, while their kind offices supply all 
our wants, and their affectionate embraces lock us 
eternally in their arms, we forget, in the blandishments 
of such a state, almost the faculty of self-motion, lose 
sight of the power of acting from ourselves, and sel- 
dom reflect that we may be reduced to the necessity 
of supporting ourselves under the adversities of life. 
To guard against this event, therefore, it is proper, by 
retiring into Solitude, to experience and rely upon the 
strength of our own powers. The soul, weakened by 
the storms of life, then acquires new vigour ; fixes the 
steady eye of fortitude on the frowns of adversity, and 
learns to elude the threatening rocks on • which the 

happiness of vulgar minds is so frequently wTecked ~ 

He who devotes his days to Solitude, finds resource^ 
within himself of which he had no idea; while philo- 
sophy inspires him with courage to sustain the mosl 
rigourous shocks of fate. 

The disposition of man becomes more firm, his o- 
pinions more determined and correct, when, urged by 
the tumults of life, he reflects, in the qiyetude of his 
heart, on his own nature and the manner of the world. 
The constitution of a versatile and undecided character 
proceeds entirely from that intellectual weakness which 
prevents the mind from thinking for itself. Such char- 
acters consult upon every occasion the oracle of pub- 
lic opinion, so infalliable in their ideas, before they 
know what they ought to think, or in w T hat manner 
their judgement should be formed, or their conduct 
regulated. 

Weak minds always conceire it most safe to adopt 



So THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

the sentiments of the multitude. Th< y never venture 
an opinion upon any subject until the majority have 
.decKud. l/hese decisions, whether upon men or 
thin b s, they implicitly follow, without giving them- 
selves the trouble to enquire who is right, oron which 
side the truth Ks. The spirit of truth, and love of 
equity, indeed, are only to be expected from those 
who are fearless of living alone. Men of dissipated 
minds are never the protectors of the weak, or the 
avengers of the oppressed. Are the various and 
powerful hosts of fools and knaves your enemies ? 
Are ycu injured in your property by injustice, or in 
your fame by calumny ? You must not hope for re- 
dress from light characters, or for support from men 
of dissipation; for they only repeat the voice of errour, 
and propagate the fallacies of prejudice. 

To live in Solitude, to feel ourselves alone, only in- 
spires fear, inasmuch as it contributes to extinguish 
one corporeal power by giving birth to another. The 
powers of the mind, on the contrary, augment in pro- 
portion as they become more concentrated, when no 
person is united to us, or ready to afford protection. 
To live undisturbed, to mitigate the suffering of pre- 
sent impressions, t© render the mind superior to the 
accidents of life, and to gain sufficient intrepidity to 
oppose the danger of adversity, it is absolutely neces- 
sary to live alone. How smoothly flows the stream of 
life when we have no anxiety to enquire, " Who did 
this ?" " Who said that V How many miserable pre- 
judices, and still more contemptible passions, has one 
serious reflection subdued ! How quickly, in such a 
situation, that slavish, shameful, and idolatrous vener 
ration for every unworthy object disappears ! With 
what noble spirit the votary of Solitude fearlessly dis- 
dains those characters who conceive that high birth 
and illustrious descent, confer a privilege to tyrannize 
over inferior men, to whom they frequently afford so 
many reasons to hold them in contempt. 



Gar THE MI1SD AND THE HEART. W. 

An ingenious and celebrated observer of men and 
things in tor ins us, it is in leisure and retirement alone, 
that the soul exalts itself into a sublime superiority 
over the accidents of life, becomes indifferent to the 
good or evil it may experience, the praise or censure 
it may receive^ the life it may enjoy, or even the deatbt 
it may suffer. It is in Solitude alone that those noble 
$nd refined ideas, those profound principles and uner- 
ring axioms, which form and support every great 
character, are developed. Even philosophy itself, 
continues this excellent Philosopher, in his observations 
Upon Cicero, and those deep theories upon which the 
Sublime conduct of the statesman is founded, and which 
enable him to perform with excellence the important 
duties with which he is charged, are formed in the si- 
lence of Solitude, in some distant retirement from the 
great theatre of the world. 

As Solitude, therefore, not only gives firmness to 
the characters, and propriety to the sentiments of men, 
but leads the mind to a true degree of elevation, so 
likewise, there is no other situation in which we so 
Soon acquire the important knowledge of. ourselves. 

Retirement connects us more closely with our 
own bosoms, and we live in habits of the strictest inti- 
macy only with ourselves. It is certainly possible for 
men to be deliberate and wise, even amidst ail the tu- 
mults of the world, especially if their principles be 
well fixed before they enter on the stage of life ; but. 
it is much more difficult to preserve an integrity of 
conduct amidst the corruptions of society, than in the 
simplicity of Solitude. How many men please only 
by their faults, and recommend themselves only by 
their vices J Plow many profligate villains and unprin- 
cipled adventurers, of insinuating manners, are well 
deceived by society, only because they have learnt the 
art of administering to the follies, the weaknesses, the 
vices, of t,hoss who give the lead to fashion i How is 

D 



3S- THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

it possible that the mind, intoxicated with the fumes of 
that incense which flattery burns to its honour, should 
be capable of knowing or appreciating the characters 
of men i But, on the contrary, in the silence and tran- 
quility of retirement, whether we are led by inclination 
to the study of ourselves, awakened to reflection by a 
sense of misery, or compelled to think seriously on 
our situation, and to examine the inward complexion 
of the heart, we can learn what we are and what we 
ought to be. 

How many new and useful discoveries may be made, 
by occasionally forcing ourselves from the vortex of 
the world, to the calm enjoyments of study and re* 
flection i To accomplish this end, it is only necessary 
to commune seriously with our hearts, and to examine 
our conduct with candour and impartiality. The man 
of worldly pleasure, indeed, has reason to shun this 
ielf-examination, conscious that the result of the en- 
quiry would be extremely unfavorable : for he who 
>nly judges of himself by the flattering opinion which 
ithers have been pleased to express of his character, 
vill, in such a scrutiny, behold with surprize, that he 
t8 the miserable slave of fashion, habit, and public 
opinion ; submitting with laborious diligence, and the 
utmost possible grace, to the exactions of politeness, 
and the authoritative demands of established ceremo- 
ny ; never venturing to contradict the imperious voice 
of fashion, however senseless and absurd its dictates 
may appear ; obsequiously following the example of 
others, giving credit to every thing they say, doing 
every thing they do, and not daring to condemn those 
pursuits which every one seems so highly to approve. 
If such a character possess that degree of candour he 
ought s he will not only perceive, but acknowledge, 
that an infinite number of his daily thoughts and 
actions, are inspired by a base fear of himself, or arise 
from a servile complaisance to others ; that in the 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART, 39 

^company of princes and statesmen, he only seeks to 
flatter their vanities, and indulge their caprices ; that 
by his devotion to politeness, he submits to become the 
minister of their vices, rather than ofrtT them the 
smallest -contradiction, or hazard an opinion which is 
likely to give them the least displeasure. Whoever 
With calm consideration views this terrifying picture, 
will feel in the silent emotion of his heart, the necessity 
of occasionally retiring into Solitude? and seeking 
society with men of nobler sentiments and purer 
^principles. 

The violent alternatives of pleasure and pain, of 
hope and fear, of content and mortification, incessant- 
ly torment the mind that has not courage to rise 
superior to the influence of the objects of sense. The 
virtues fly from the habitation of a heart that yields it- 
self to first impressions, of a heart that is forever 
obedient to the feelings of the moment, and incapable 
of exerting a dominion over them. The virtues also 
cease to dwell in the bosoms of the worldly, who, fol- 
lowing the example of the times, are guided in all 
their actions by sinister motives, and directed to every 
end, by the mean consideration of self interest, either 
immediate or remote. To exercise even virtue itself, 
with advantage and effect, it is necessary to retire into 
Solitude: to avoid the impediments which the acci- 
dents of the passing day may create ; to estimate, by 
a silent examination, the true value of things, and the 
real merit of human actions. The mind debased by 
the corruptions of the world, has no idea of relinquish- 
ing the prospect of present benefit, and making a noble 
sacrifice of glory and of fortune. They never appre- 
ciate any action by its intrinsic merit, but conduct all 
their calculations upon a vile notion of lucre, and only 
assume the garb of virtue as a mean of snatching some 
poor advantage, obtaining some paltry honour, or 
gaining some serviceable credit : to those who, from 



40 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

their power and superiority, might, if they were 
equally base and contemptible, prejudice their inte- 
rests, they pay a servile court, flatter, lie, calumniate 
and cringe, and depart only to commit new baseness 
elsewhere. 

Man discovers with deeper penetration, the extent 
and nature of the passions by which he is swayed, 
<when he reflects on their power in the calmness and 
silence of Solitude, where the soul, being less fre- 
quently suspended between hope and fear, acts with 
greater freedom. How virtuous, alas ! do we all 
become, under the pressure of calamity 1 How sub- 
missive, how indulgent, how kind is man, when the 
finger of God chastises his frailties, by rendering his 
hopes delusive, and his schemes abortive ; when the 
Almighty Power humbles human pride, converts our 
wisdom into folly, our profoundest counsels into mani- 
fest and striking instances of madness ! At such a 
moment, the caresses of a child, the most distant 
civility from inferiors, afford us the highest comfort. 
The scene, however, presently changes ; we view 
misfortune under a different aspect, our softness dies 
away, our sufferings decrease, the soul begins to rise 
from its dejection, we acquire a knowledge of its 
faculties, become indifferent to every external object, 
and feeling the extent of its powers, discover our su- 
periority over all those circumstances which before 
gave inquietude to fear, and alarm to weakness. 

Sheltered in the retreats of Solitude from the ex- 
tremes of fortune, and less exposed to the intoxication 
of success, or the depression of disappointment, life 
glides easily along like the shadow of a passing cloud. 
Adversity need not here intrude, to teach us how 
insignificant we are in the eyes of God, how helpless 
without his assistance, how much our unchecked 
pride poisons the happiness of life, torments the heart, 
and becomes the endless and encreasing source of hu* 



OW THE MIND AND THE HEART, 41 

man misery ; for in the calm regions of retirement,- 
undisturbed by treacherous fondness or groundless hate, 
if even hope should disappear, and every comfort 
vanish from our view, we are still capable of submit- 
ting to the stroke of fate with patience and resignation. 

Let every one, therefore, who wishes to think with 
dignity, or live with ease, seek the retreats of Soli- 
tude, and enter into a friendly intercourse with his 
own heart. How small a portion of true philosophy, 
with an enlightened understanding, will render us 
humble and compliant ! But, in the mists of preju- 
dice, dazzled by the intellectual glimmer of false 
lights, every one mistakes the true path, and seeks for 
happiness in the shades of darkness, and the labyrinths 
of obscurity* The habits of retirement and tranquility 
can alone enable us to make a just estimate of men 
and things, and it is by renouncing all the preposses- 
sions which the conniptions of society have implanted 
in the mind, that we make the first advances towards 
the restoration of reason, and the attainment of felicity. 

Solitude will afford us this advantage, if when we 
are there alone before God, and far retired from the 
observation of men, the silent language of conscience 
shew r s to us the great imperfection of our characters, 
and the many difficulties we have yet to surmount, be- 
fore we can attain the excellence of which our nature 
is capable. In society, men mutually deceive each 
other : they make a parade of learning, affect senti- 
ments which they do not possess, dazzle the observer 
by borrowed rays, and in the end mislead themselves 
by the illusions which they raise. But in Solitude, 
far removed from the guile of flattery and falsehood, 
accompanied by truth and followed by virtue, the mind 
enters into a close acquaintance with itself, forms its 
judgment with greater accuracy, and feels the inesti- 
mable value of sincerity and singleness of heart. Here 
tfye possession of these qualities can never prove inju- 



4$ THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

rious ; for in the retreats of Solitude, moral excellence 
is not an object either of ridicule or contempt. We 
here compare the false appearances of the world with 
the reality of things, and perceive the advantages they 
seem to promise, and the specious virtues they ap- 
peared to possess, vanish like an airy vapour. The 
pride of human wit, the false conclusions of reason, 
the mistakes of vanity, and the weaknesses of the 
heart, are here developed to the eye of impartial- 
ity. All that is imperfect in our fairest virtues, in our 
sublimest conceptions, in our most generous actions, 
•all the ostentations of self-love, are here exhibited in 
their natural forms. Is it possible to acquire so per- 
fect a knowledge of ourselves in the world, amidst the 
bustle of business, and among the increasing dangers 
of social life ? 

To subdue the dangerous passions and vicious incli- 
nations, which agitate and mislead the heart, it is 
necessary to fix the attention on other objects, and turn 
our attachments to more laudable pursuits ; but Soli- 
tude is the only situation in which new sentiments and 
new ideas, arising from inexhaustible resources, instil 
themselves into the mind : here the soul acts with per- 
fect freedom in every direction, and exerts all the 
force and energy of which it is susceptible. And as 
Solitude, to the idle, may mitigate the intemperance of 
desire, so, on the contrary, to the active it affords a 
complete victory over all the most irregular inclina- 
tions of the heart. 

Snatched from the illusions of society, from the 
snares of the world, and placed in the security of re- 
tirement, we view every object in its true form, as well 
under the distractions of misfortune, as in the pangs 
of sickness, and in the anguish of death. The vanity 
and emptiness of all those advantages which we expect 
from external objects, appear in full view, and we dis- 
cover the necessity of curbing the extravagance of our 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART, 43 

thoughts, and the licentiousness of our desires. The 
veil of false appearance is removed ; and he who in the 
world was raised as mucn above others, as by his faults 
and vices he ought to have sunk beneath them, here 
perceives the imperfections which flattery had conceal- 
ed, and which a crowd of miserable slaves had, perhaps, 
the baseness and cowardice entirely to justify. 

To acquire durable pleasures and true felicity? it is 
necessary to adopt that judicious and rational philoso- 
phy which considers Hie in a serious point of view, 
courts enjoyments which neither time nor accident 
can destroy, and looks with an eye of pity on the stupid 
vulgar, agitating their minds and tormenting their 
hearts, in splendid miseries and childish conversations. 
Those however, on the contrary, who have no know- 
ledge of their own hearts, who have no habits of 
reflection, no means of employment, who have not 
persevered in virtue nor are able to listen to the voice 
of reason, have nothing to hope from Solitude ; their 
joys are all annihilated when the blood has lost its 
warmth, when the senses are blunted ; and their powers 
diminished ; on experiencing the least ^convenience, 
the most trifling reverse of fortune, they fall into the 
deepest distress, the most horrid ideas fill their minds, 
and they are tormented with all the agitations of ail 
alarmed imagination. 

We have hitherto only pointed out one portion of 
the general advantages of Solitude : there are, howe- 
ver, many others which touch men more nearly. Ah ! 
who has not experienced its kind influence in the ad- 
versities of life I Who has not in the moment of con- 
valescence, in the hour of melancholy, in the age when 
separation or death has deprived the heart of the in- 
tercourses of friendship, sought relief under its salutary 
shades ? Happy is the being who is sensible of the ad- 
vantages of a religious retirement from the world, of a 
sacred tranquility, where ail the benefits to be deriyed 



44 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

from society, impress themselves more deeply in the 
heart, where every hour is consecrated to the practice 
of the mild and peaceful virtues ; and where every 
man, when he is on the bed of death, wishes he had 
lived I But these advantages become: much more con- 
spicuous, when we compare the modes of thought 
which employ the mind of a solitary philosopher, with 
those of a worldly sensualist ; the tiresome and tu- 
multuous life of the one, with the soft tranquility of 
the other ; when we oppose the fear and horrour 
which disturb the death bed of the worldly-minded 
man, with the peaceable and easy exit of those pious 
souis, who submit with resignation to the wiilo' Hea- 
ven. It is at this awful moment, that we feel how . 
important it is to turn the eye inwardly upon ourselves, 
and to hold a religious communion with our Creator," 
if we would bear the sufferings of life with dignity, and 
the pains of death with ease. 

Solitude affords us the most incontestible advantages 
under the greatest adversities of hie. The convales- 
cent, the unfortunate, the misanthropist, here find 
equal relief ; their tortured souls here find a balm for 
the deep and painful wounds they have received, and 
soon regain their pristine health and vigour. 

Sickness and affliction would fly with horrour from 
the retreats of Solitude, if their friendly shades did 
not afford them that consolation, which they are una- 
ble to obtain in the temples of pleasure. The subtile 
vapours which sensuality and intoxication shed upon 
the objects that surround a state of health and happi- 
ness, entirely disappear ; and all those charms, which 
subsist rather in imagination than in reality, lose their 
power. To the happy, every object wears the delight- 
ful colours of the rose ; but to the miserable, all is 
black and dreadful. The two conditions are equally in 
the extreme ; but neither of them discover the errors 
into which they are betrayed, until the moment w&en 



OK THE MIND AND THE HEAH'T. 45 

the curtain drops, when the scene changes, the illu- 
sion is dissipated. Both of them enjoy the dream, 
while the understanding continues silent and absorbed. 
The one feels that God employs his attention to the 
preservation of his creatures, even when he sees them 
the most abandoned and profligate. The others de- 
vote themselves to those vanities aaid pleasures with 
which the fashions of the world intoxicate the mind, 
even although, at the very moment, they reflect se- 
riously upon themselves, upon their present situation, 
their future destiny, and the means by which alon« 
they can be conducted to perfect felicity. 

How unhappy should we be if the Divine Providence 
were to grant us every thing' we desire ! Even under 
the very afflictions, by which man conceives all the 
happiness of his life annihilated, God perhaps purpos- 
es something extraordinary in his favour. New cir- 
cumstances excite new exertions. In Solitude and 
tranquility, if we earnestly endeavour to conquer mis- 
fortune, the activity of life, which, until the moment 
of adversity, had been perhaps suspended, suddenly 
changes ; and the mind regains its energy and vigour, 
even while it laments the state of inaction, to which it 
conceives itself to be irretrievably reduced. 

But there are still greater advantages : if sorrow 
force us into Solitude, patience and perseverance soon 
restore the soul to its natural tranquility and joy. We 
ought never to inspect the volume of futurity ; its 
pages will only deceive us ; on the contrary, we ought 
for ever to repeat this experimental truth, this consol- 
atory maxim :— -That the objects which men behold 
at a distance with fear and trembling, lose, on a nearer 
approach, not only their disagreeable and menacing 
aspect, but frequently, in the event, produce the most 
agreeable and unexpected pleasures. He who tries 
every expedient, who boldly opposes himself to every 
difficulty, who stands steady and inflexible to every 






46 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

obstacle, who neglects no exertion within his power, 
and relies with confidence en the assistance of God* 
QKtracts from affliction both its poison and its stingy 
and deprives misfortune of its victory. 

Sorrow, misfortune-, sickness, soon render us easy 
and familiar wjth Sobtucle. How readily we renounce 
|fce world, how rnd^erettt we become to all its pleas- 
ures, when the insvdious eloquence of the passions is 
silenced, when We are distracted by pain, oppressed 
by e by all our powers ! Under such 

circumstances, we immediately perceive the weakness 
and instability of Jijlose succours which the world af- 
fords ; where pair: is mixed with every joy, and vanity 
reigns throughout. How many useful truths, alas i 
does sickness teach even to kings and ministers, whije 
they suffer themselves to be deluded and imposed up- 
on by all mankind ! 

The opportunity which a valetudinarian enjoys, of 
employing his faculties with facility and success, in a 
manner conformable to the extent of his designs, is 
undoubtedly short, and passes rapidly away. Such 
happiness is the lot only of those who enjoy robust 
.health : they alone can exclaim, " Time is my own ;" 
but he who labours under continual sickness and suf- 
fering, and whose avocation depends on the public ne- 
cessity or caprice, can never say that he has one 
moment to himself. He must watch the fleeting' hours 
as they pass, and seize an interval of liesure when and 
where he can. Necessity as well as reason convinces 
him, that he must, in spite of his daily sufferings, hte 
wearied body, or his harrassed mind, firmly resist his 
accumulating troubles, and, if he would save himself 
from becoming the victim of dejection, manfully com- 
bat the difficulties by which he is attacked. The more 
we enervate ourselves, the more we become the prey 
of ill-health ; but a determined courage and obstinate 
resistance, frequently renovate our powers ; and he 



QN THE MIND AND THE HEART. 4T 

*ffho, in the calm of Solitude, vigourously wrestles with 
misfortune, is certain, in the event, of gaming consi- 
derable advantage. 

But under the pains of sickness, we are apt too easiljr 
to listen to the voice of indulgence ; we neglect to, 
exercise the powers we possess ; and instead of direct? 
ing the attention to those objects which may divert 
distraction and strengthen fortitude, we foster fondly 
in our bosoms all the disagreeable circumstances of 
our situation. The soul sinks from inquietude to in- 
quietude, loses all its powers, abandons its remaining 
reason, and feels, from its increasing agonies and Buf- 
ferings, no confidence in its own exertions. The 
valetudinarian should force his mind to forget its trou- 
bles ; should endeavour to emerge from the he?tvy at* 
mosphere by which he is enveloped and depressed. 
By these exertions, he will certainly find unexpected 
relief, and be able to accomplish that which before he 
conceived to be impossible. For this purpose, h©we^ 
ver, he must first dismiss the physicians, who daily 
visit him, to ascertain the state of his health ; feeling 
his pulse with a ludicrous gravity, while they serious- 
ly shake their heads, and perform, according to their 
custom, many other affected and ridiculous tricks 5 
but who, from a great inclination to discover what does 
not exist, unhappily never discern the symptoms that * 
are most plainly to be seen. These pretenders to sci- 
ence serve only to alarm the mind of the patient, to 
rivet his attention more closely to those very objects 
which it is his interest to forget, and to redouble his 
sufferings, by the beneficial danger into which they 
raise the most trifling circumstance of his disorder. 
He must also avoid the company of false friends, and 
all those who only administer flattery to his frailties. 
He must learn to assure them, that he disbelieves all 
that they have told him ; for if the sensations they ex- 
cite, are thought to have any foundation in truth, his 



43 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

own imagination immediately superinduces a variety 
of gloomy phantoms and terrifying chimeras. 

Thus, under situations the most difficult to support, 
there still remain resources and consolations in the 
bosom of Solitude. Are the nerves deranged ? Is the 
head pained by vertigoes i lias the mind no longer 
any power to think, the eye to read, the hand to write ? 
Has it become physically impossible to exercise any 
of the functions ot the soul I In such a situation, we 
must learn - to vegetate," saicl one of the most 
enlightened philosophers ol Germany, when he beheld 
itie at Hanover, in a condition which rendered me in- 
capable of adopting any other resource. O Garve ! 
With what rapture I threw myself into your arms ! 
With what transports I heard you speak, when you 
chewed me the necessity of learning to support myself . 
under my accumulated calamities, by convincing me 
that you had experienced equal sufferings, and had 
been able to practise the lessons which you taught. 

The sublime Menbelsokm, during a certain period 
of his life. Was frequently obliged to retire, when dis- 
coursing on philosophical subjects, to avoid the danger 
of fainting. In these moments, it was his custom to 
neglect all study, to banish labour of thought entirely 
from his mind. His physician one day asked him, 
14 How then do you employ your time, if you do not 
44 think ?'f — «" I retire to the windows of my chamber, 
44 and count the tiles upon the roof of my neighbour's 
" house." 

Without thy tranquil wisdom, O ! my beloved 
Mendelsohm ! Without thy resignation to the will 
of Heaven, we can never reach that elevated grandeur 
of character, can never attain to that dignified endur- 
ance of our sufferings, can never possess that stoic 
fortitude, which places human happiness- beyond the 
reach of misery, and out of the power of fate. Thy 
great example pours consolation into the heart ; and 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 4& 

humanity should behold with grateful joy, the supe* 
riority which resignation affords to us, even under the' 
severest of physical misfortunes. 

A slight effort to obtain the faintest ray of comfort, 
and a- calm resignation under inevitable misfortunes, 
will mutually contribute to procure relief. The man 
whose mind adheres to virtue, will never permit him- 
self to be so far overcome with the sense of misfor- 
tune, as not to endeavour to vanquish his feelings, even 
when, fallen into the unhappy state of despair, he no 
longer sees any prospect of comfort or consolation. 
The most dejected bosom may endure sensations 
deeply afflicting, provided the mind be not lazy and 
inactive, will exercise its attention ©n some other ob- 
ject thaii itself, and make the smallest effort to with- 
draw the soul from brooding over its torments and its 
Sorrows, by inspiring the mind with ideas of virtuous 
sentiments, noble actions, and generous inclinations. 
For this reason, it is necessary to cultivate in our 
minds the love of activity, and, after a dutiful and en- 
tire submission to the dispensations of Heaven, force 
ourselves into employment, until, from the warmth of 
our exertions, we acquire a habit of alertness* I con- 
sider a disposition to be active, amidst that disgust and 
apathy which destroy the nerves of life, as the most 
$ure and efficacious antidote against the poisori of a 
dejected spirit, a soured temper, a melancholy mind.! 

The influence of the mind upon the body is one of 
the most consolatory truths to those who are the sub- 
jects of habitual sufferings. Supported fey this idea,. 
they never permit their reason to be entirely over- 
come : religion, under this idea never loses it* 
powerful empire in the breast : ?nd they are nevei* 
instructed in the lamentable truth, that men of the 
finest sensibilities, and most cultivated understandings, 
frequently discover less fortitude under afflictions* 
than the most vulgar of mankind, It is 3 perhaps, in^ 

E 



50 THE INFLUENCE OF SQL1TUD® 

credible, that Campanella should have been capable 
of deranging his mind by gloomy reflections, to such 
& degree, that he might have endured the tortures of 
the rack with less pain ; but I can, from my own ex- 
perience, assert, that even in the extremity of distress, 
every object which diverts the attention, softens the 
evils which we endure, and frequently drives them, * 
un perceived, away. 

Many celebrated philosophers have, by this means, 
at length been able, not only to preserve a tranquil 
mind in the midst of the most poignant sufferings, but 
have even increased the strength of their intellectual 
faculties, in spite of their corporeal pains. Rousseau 
composed the greatest part of his immortal works, 
under the continual pressure of sickness and grief. 
Gellert, who, by his mild, agreeable, and instruct- 
ive writings, has become the preceptor of Germany, 
certainly found in this interesting occupation, the 
surest remedy against melancholy. At an age already 
far advanced in life, Mendelsohm, who, although 
not by nature subject to dejection, was for a long time 
oppressed by an almost inconceivable derangement of 
the nervous system, by submitting with patience and 
docility to his sufferings, still maintains all the noble 
and sublime advantages of his youth. Garve, who 
had lived whole years without being able to read, to 
write, or to think, afterwards composed his treatise on 
Cicero ; and in that work, this profound writer, so 
circumspect in all his expressions, that he would have 
been sensibly affected if any word too emphatic had 
dropped from his pen, with a species of enthusiasm 
returns thanks to the Almighty God for the imbecili- 
ty of his constitution, because it had convinced him of 
the extensive influence which the powers of the mind 
possess over those of the body. 

A firm resolution, a steady adherence towards some 
lioble and interesting end, will enable us to endure 



ON Tft'S MIN» AND THE HEART. 51 

the most poignant affliction. An heroic courage is * 
natural in all the .dangerous enterprizes of ambition, 
and in the little crosses of life .is much more common 
than patience ; but a persevering courage, under evila 
of long duration, is a quality rarely seen ; especially 
when the soul, enervated by melancholy, abandons it- 
self to despair, its most ordinary refuge, ai-xl looks 
up to Heaven alone for its protection. 

It is this that renders melancholy the most severe 
of ail the calamities of human life ; and of all the re- 
medies against it, there is none more efficacious than 
a calm and silent employment of the mind : for in So- 
litude, the weight of melancholy is lessened by the 
feeblest efibrt, by the slightest resistance. The mo- 
ment we make-it a rule never to be idle, and to bear 
our sufferings with patience, the keenest anguish of 
the soul flies from our resignation, yields to cur sub- 
mission. While we encourage a fondness for activity, 
and endeavour to repel the incumbent misery by mo- 
derate but continued efforts, the spirits gain new 
powers : a small victory leads to a greater conquest : 
and the joy which success inspires, immediately de- 
stroys the notion we had entertained of endless sorrow. 
If the exertions of reason and virtue, prove ineffectual 
against sickness and ill-humour, we should employ 
the mind upon some engaging object which requires 
but little attention ; for the slightest is frequently ca- 
pable of subduing the severest sorrow. The shades 
of melancholy disappear, the moment we fix attention 
on any object that interests the mind. Oftentimes, 
alas ! that extravagant despair, that supineness and 
apathy which rejects all advice, and renders us inca- 
pable of consolation, is only a concealment of our 
vexations, and of consequence becomes a real malady 
of the mind, which it is impossible to conquer but by 
a firm and constant perseverance. 



52 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

To men who possess a sensibility too refined, an 
imagination too ardent, to mix with comfort in the 
society of the world, and who are continually com- 
plaining of men and things, Solitude is not only 
desirable, but absolutely necessary. He who suffers 
himself to be afflicted by that which scarcely excites 
an emotion in the breasts of other men ; who complains 
of those misfortunes as severe which others scarcely 
feel ; whose mind falls into despair unless his happi- 
ness be instantly restored, and his wants immediately 
satisfied ; who suffers unceasing torments from the 
illusions of his fancy ; who feels himself unhappy on- 
ly because prosperity does not anticipate his wishes ; 
who murmurs against the blessings he receives, be- 
cause he is ignorant of his real wants ; who flies from 
one amusement to another; who is alarm' d at every 
thing, and enjoys nothing : he, alas ! is not formed for 
society ; and if Solitude have not power to heal his 
wounded spirit, the earth certainly contains no reme- 
dy to cure him. 

Men who in other respects are very rational, possess- 
ed of excellent hearts and pious dispositions, frequent- 
ly fall into disquietude and despair, but it is almost 
entirely their own fault. If their despair arise, as is 
generally the case r from unfounded fears ; if they 
love to torment themselves and others upon every 
slight inconvenience, upon the smallest derangement 
of their health ; if they constantly resort to medicine 
for that relief which reason alone can afford ; if they 
will not endeavour to repress the wanderings of their 
fancies ; if, after having supported the acutest pains 
with patience, and blunted the greatest misfortunes by 
fortitude, they neither can nor will learn to bear the 
puncture of the smallest pin, to endure the lightest 
accidents of mortal life ; they ought not to complain 
of the want of courage to any but themselves ; such 
characters^ who by a single effort of the understand- 



©N THE MIND AND THE HEART. 53 

itogi might look with composure and tranquility on the 
multiplied and fatal fires, issuing from the dreadful 
cannon's mouth, fall under the apprehension of being 
fired at by pop-guns. 

Firmness, resolution, and all those qualities of the 
soul, which form a stoic hardiness of character, are 
much sooner acquired by a quiet communion with 
the heart, than in the busy intercourses of mankind, 
where innumerable difficulties continually oppose us ; 
where duty, servility, flattery, and fear, obstruct exer- 
tion ; where every thing unites to destroy our powers ; 
and where, for this reason, men of the weakest minds 
and most contracted notions, are always more active 
and popular, gain more attention, and are better re- 
ceived, than men of enlarged and noble minds. 

The mind fortifies itself with impregnable strength 
under the shades of Solitude, against sufferings and 
affliction. In retirement, the frivolous attachments 
w b'ch steal away the soul, and drive it wandering, as 
oh, \ nee may direct, into a dreary void, die away. The 
distracting multiplicity of enjoyments are here re- 
nounced ; we have experienced how little we want ; 
perhaps have made so considerable a progress in tlie 
knowledge of ourselves, that we feel no discomposure 
when the Almighty chastises vis with afflictions, hum- 
bles our proud spirits and vain conceits, thwarts the 
violence of our passions, and restores us to a lively- 
sense of our inanity and weakness. How many im- 
portant truths do we here learn, of which the worldly- 
minded man has no idea ; truths which the torrent of 
vanity overwhelms in his dissipated soul ! How fami- 
liarised we become with the evils attached to a state of 
mortality, in proportion as we cast the calm eye of 
reflection on ourselves, and on the objects which sur- 
round us ! In a state of Solitude and tranquility, how 
different every thing appears ! The heart expands to 
the most virtuous sentiments ; the blush of conscience 

£2 



54 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

reddens on the cheek ; we reach the sublimest con- 
ceptions of the mind, adopt the boldest resolutions; 
and observe a conduct truly irreproachable. 

The unfortunate being who deplores the death of 
some beloved friend, constantly feels a strong desire 
to withdraw from the intercourse of society ; while all 
unite to destroy the laudable inclination. They avoid 
ail conversation with the unhappy sufferer on the sub- 
ject of its loss, and think it more consolatory to sur- 
round him with a crowd of acquaintance, cold and 
indifferent to the event, who think their duties suffi- 
ciently discharged by paying the tributary visit, and 
chattering from morning till evening, on the current 
topics of the town ; as if each of their pleasantries 
conveyed a balm of comfort into the wounded heart. 

** Leave mc to myself" I exclaimed a thousand 
times, within two years after my arrival in Germany. 
I lost the lovely idol of my heart, the amiable compan- 
ion of my life. Her departed spirit still hovers round 
me : the tender recollection of all that she was tome, 
the afflicting remembrance of all that she suffered on 
ray account, are always present to my mind What 
purity and innocence ! what mildness and affability I 
Her death was as calm and resigned as her life was 
pure and virtuous. During five long months the lin- 
gering pangs of dissolution hung continually around 
her. One day, as she reclined upon her pillow, while 

I read to her " The Death of Christ," by Rammleh, 
she cast her eyes over the page, and silently pointed 
out to me the following passage : " My breath grows 
* weak, my days are shortened, my heart is full of af- 

II fiiction, and my soul prepares to take its flight."— 
Alas ! when 1 recal all those circumstances to my 
mind, and recollect how impossible it was for me to 
abandon the world, at that moment of anguish and dis- 
tress ; when I carried the seeds of death within my 
bosom j when I had neither j o&titvx>£ to bear my 



©X THE MIND AND THE HEART. £3 

afflictions, nor courage to resist them ; while I was 
yet pursued by malice, and outraged by calumny ;— 
in such a situation, I can easily conceive that my ex- 
clamation might be — " leave me <ro mtself". 

To be alone, far retired from the tumults and em- 
barrassments of society, is the first and fondest desire 
of the heart, when, under such misfortunes, we are un- 
happily situated among men who, incapable of equal 
feeling, have no idea of the torments we endure. 

How ! to live in Solitude, to relinquish the society 
of men, to be buried, during life, in some wild, desert- 
ed country ! Oh, yes ! such a retreat affords a ten- 
der and certain consolation, under all the afflictions 
which fasten on the heart. Such is the eternal sepa- 
ration of sensible and beloved friends— a separation 
more grievous and terrifying than the fatal period it- 
self which terminates existence : — the heart is torn 
with anguish, the very ground we tread on seems to 
sink beneath our feet, when this horrible and hidden 
event divides us from those who had for so long a peri* 
od been all in all to us in life, whose memory neither 
time nor accident can wipe away, and whose absence 
renders all the pleasures of the world odious to our 
sight. Solitude, in such an event, is our only resource : 
but to soften the grief which this eternal separation 
inflicts, to remove the sorrows which prey upon the 
poor heart, to wipe away the »tears from the cheeks, 
we must, even in Solitude, continue to employ the 
mind, to excite its attention to the accomplishment of 
some interesting tndj and lead the imagination from 
one object te> another. 

How many torments, alas ! are there, that lie con- 
cealed frcm the observation of the world, which we 
must learn to bear within our own bosoms, and which 
can only be softened by Solitude and retirement ! 

Represent to yourself an unfortunate foreigner, pla- 
ced in a country where every one was suspicious oJ 



56 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

his character, borne down by misfortunes from every 
side, attacked every mom est by despair ; who, 
during a long course of years, could neither stoop 
nor sit to write, without feeling the most excruci- 
ating pains ; m a country where, from a fanatic 
prejudice, every one strewed thorns and briars in 
his path ; where, in the midst of all his afflictions, he 
was deprived of the object which was dearest to him 
in the world. Yet it was in such a country, and under 
these circumstances, that he at length found a person 
who extended the hand of affection towards him* : 
whose voice, like a voice from Heaven, said to him, 
" Come, I will .dry up your tears, I will inspire cour- 
u age into your wounded heart. I will be the kind 
Cl comforter of all your sufferings, aid you to support 
" them, banish the remembrance of sorrow from your 
" mind, recal youi sensibility to the touching beauties 
" of nature, and force you to acknowledge that the 
" Religion nve profess, is also inspired by a beneficent 
(i Deity, whose goodness strews flowers over the paths 
" of life. You shall, afterwards, afford assistance to 
" me, become part of my family ; and we will ready 
" think, feel, and lift up our hands together in orations 
" to God. I will endeavour to charm away the silence 
" of disgust, by entertaining conversation ; and, when 
" tranquility returns, collect for you all the flowers 
a which adorn the paths of life ; discourse with you 
" on the charms of virtue ; think of you with love ; 
«' treat you with esteem ; rely upon you with con fli- 
rt dence ; prove to you, that the people among whom 
<< you are situated are less wicked than you conceive 
«' them tabe — &nd perhaps that they are not so at all. 
i< I will remove from your mind all anxiety about do- 
it mestic concerns ; do every thing to relieve and 
& please you : you shall taste all the happiness of an 
* The author here alludes to Madame Dorine, wife of 
the Counsellor of State^ and daughter to the celebrated 
Vice-Chancellor Strube* 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 5? 

" easy, tranquil life. I will diligently endeavour to 
H point out your faults ; and you, in gratitude, shall 
" also correct mine. You shall form my mind, com* 
" municate to me your knowledge, and preserve to 
" me, by the assistance of God and your own talents, 
" the felicities of my life, together with those of my 
" husband and my children ; we will love our neigh- 
" hours with the same heart ,and unite our endeavours 
" to afford consolation to the affiicted, and succour to 
" the distressed." 

But if, after having experienced all this pleasure du» 
ring a great number of years ; if, after having enjoy- 
ed these consolations, under circumstances the most 
critical and cruel ; if, after flattering myself that her 
friendly hand would close my dying eye-lids — that I 
should expire in the arms of ibis heroic female ; if, 
for only obeying the divine impulse of commiseration, 
my protectress should be torn for ever from the bosom 
of her family — obliged to leave her country, and seek 
a voluntary exile in a foreign land : if I should behold 
myself forever deprived of this dear friend, this pro- 
tecting angel — what comfort would remain for me on 
the face of the earth ! Thus abandoned and forlorn, 
to what asylum could I fly ? To Solitude, alone I 
There I might combat my rising griefs, and learn to 
support my destiny with courage. 

To a heart torn, by too rigorous a destiny, from the 
bosom that was opened for its reception, from a bosom 
in which it fondly dwelt, from an object that it dearly 
loved — detatched from every object, at a loss where- 
to 3x its affection or communicate its feelings, Soli- 
tude alone can administer comfort. To him who, in 
the cruel hour of separation, exclaims, in the bitterness 
of his soul, " In every exertion to do good, my only 
" reward is to give you pleasure ; all the happiness of 
" my life concentres in the joys that you receive !" 
Solitude is the last and only consolation. 



58 THE INFLUENCE OT SOLITUDE 

There are, therefore"; situations from which nothing 
but Solitude and retirement can relieve us. For this 
reason it is frequently necessary that those whom me- 
lancholy affects, should be left alone ; for, as we shall 
now proceed to shew, they may find in Solitude an in- 
finite variety of consolations, and many resources of 
comfort, both for the mind and the heart. 

The healthy and the sick, the happy and the miser- 
able, the rich and the poor, all, without exception, 
may find infinite advantages in a religious retirement 
from the World. It is not, alas ! in the temples of 
pleasure, in those meetings where every one empties, 
to its last drop, the cup of folly ; in the coteries oc- 
cupied by vulgar gaiety ; in brilliant assemblies, or at 
luxurious boards — that the mind grows familiar with 
those tender and sublime sentiments which subdue the 
desires of sensuality, ennoble all the enjoyments of 
life, raise the passing moment into importance by con- 
necting it with the events of futurity, and banish from 
a transitory life the extravagant fondness for the dia* 
sipations of the world. 

In Solitude we behold, more near and intimately, 
that Providence which overlooks all. Silence continu- 
ally recals to our mind the consolatory idea, the mild 
and satisfactory sentiment, that the eye of the Almigh- 
ty is forever viewing the actions of his creatures ; that 
he superintends all our movements ; that we are gov- 
erned by his power and preserved by his goodness.— • 
In Solitude, the Deity is every where before us. E* 
mancipated from the dangerous fermentations of sense, 
guided by nobler inclinations, possessed of pure, unal- 
terable joys ; we contemplate with seriousness and vign 
our, with freedom and with confidence, the attainment 
of supreme felicity, and enjoy, in thought, the happi- 
ness we expect to reach. In this holy meditation, ev-. 
evy ignoble sentiment, every painful anxiety, every 
worldly thought and vulgar care, banish from the m'vcA. 



©N TH5 MITsD AND THE HEART. S9 

Solitude has already brought us nearer to God, 
when, beside all the tender and humane feelings of the 
heart, we feel those salutary sensations which a dis- 
trust and jealousy of our own abilities create— sensa- 
tions which, in public life, make light and transient 
impressions, and fade so soon away. When, at the 
bed of sickness, I behold the efforts which the soul 
makes to oppose its impending dissolution from the 
body, and, notwithstanding, discover, by the increasing 
tortures, the rapid advances of approaching death ; 
when I see my unhappy patient extend his cold and 
trembling hands, to thank the Almighty for the smal- 
lest mitigation of his pains ; when I hear his utterance 
checked by intermingled groans, and view the tender 
looks and silent anguish of his attending friends — all 
my powers abandon me, my heart bleeds, and I tear 
myself from the sorrowful scene, to pour my tears 
more freely over the unhappy sufferings of humanity, 
to lament my own inability, and the vain confidence 
placed in a feeble art — a confidence which men have 
been so forward to abuse. Conscious of the inefTicacy 
of art, I never rise from my bed without thinking it 
a heavenly miracle that I am still alive. When I count 
the number of my years, I exclaim, with the liveliest 
gratitude, that God has preserved my life beyond my 
expectation. Through what a sea of dangers has his 
goodness conducted me i Reflecting every moment 
on the weakness of my condition, and beholding men 
suddenly snatched away before me, in the prime and 
vigour of life — men who, but a few hours before, en- 
tertained no fear of death, and reckoned, perhaps, on an 
extended length of days ; what can I do but offer up 
my silent adorations to that Providence who has thus 
saved me from the menaces of death ! 

Is it possible to become wise, and escape from all 
the perils with which the world abounds, without re- 
nouncing its dissipations, and entering into a serious 



GO THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

examination of ourselves ? It is then only, that we are 
able maturely to reflect upon what we hear and see ; 
it is only during the silent occupation of the mind, that 
we can properly view those interesting objects, to 
which, in order to render them more useful or per- 
manent, we can never devote an attention sufficiently 
serious. 

Wisdom is not to be acquired by the incessant pur- 
suit of entertainments ; by flying, without reflection, 
from one party to another ; by continual conversations 
on low and trifling subjects ; by undertaking every 
thing, and doing nothing. " He who would acquire 
true wisdom," says a celebrated philosopher, " must 
learn to live in Solitude," An uninterrupted course of 
dissipations, stifles every virtuous sentiment. The 
dominion of reason is lost amidst the intoxications of 
pleasure ; its voice is no longer heard ; its authority 
no longer obeyed. The mind no longer strives to sur- 
mount temptations ; but, instead of avoiding the snares, 
which the passions lay in our way, we seek to find 
them. The precepts of religion are in no situation so 
little remembered, as in the ordinary dissipations of 
the world. Engaged in a variety of absurd pursuits, 
entranced m the delirium of gaiety and pleasure, in- 
flamed by that continual inebriety which raises the 
passions, and stimulates the desires, all connexions 
between God and man are broken ; and we abandon the 
first and only source of true felicity, renounce the fac- 
ulty of reason, and never think of religious duties but 
with levity and indifference. On the contrary, he 
who, entering into a serious self-examination, in silent 
meditation, elevates his thoughts on all occasions to- 
wards his God ; who considers the ampitheatre of 
nature, the spangled firmament of Heaven, the ver- 
dant meads enamelled with flowers, the stupendous 
mountains, and the silent groves, as the temples of 
the Divinity ; who directs the emotions of his heart 



ON THE MIND ANDl THE HEART; 61 

to the Great Authour and conductor of things ; who 
has continually before his eyes his enlightened Provi- 
dence, must, most assuredly, have already learned ta 
live in pious Solitude, and religious meditation. 

Thus, by devoting daily only as many hours to 
silent reflection as are employed at the toilette, or 
consumed at the card-table, Solitude may be rendered 
instrumental in leading the mind to piety, and the 
heart to virtue. Meditation and reflection convey 
every moment greater force and solidity to the 
intellect, excite abhorrence of too frequent inter- 
courses with mankind, and create disgust of their idle 
entertainments. We may cherish the best intentions 
towards our fellow-creatures, may succour them in 
distress, may do them all the good in our power, and 
yet shun the luxury of their feasts, fly from their co- 
teries, and disdain their frivolous pursuits. 

The opportunities of exercising great virtues, of 
performing actions of extensive utility or universal be- 
nevolence, are confined only to a few characters. But 
how many silent virtues are there, which every man 
has it in his power to perform without quitting his 
chamber ? He who can contentedly employ himself at 
home, may continue there the whole year, and yet in 
every day of that year, may contribute to the felicity 
of other men ; he may listen to their complaints, re- 
lieve their distress, render many services to those 
who are about him, and extend his benevolence in va- 
rious ways, without being seen by the world, or known 
by those on whom he confers his favours. 

A strong and determined inclination for Solitude, is 
frequently a happy omen of a pious disposition. Youth 
frequently experiences a vague and indefinable gloom, 
which, as the mind advances in reason, dies progress- 
ively away. It is during this interval that we begin 
to understand the human character, to form an esti- 
mate of ourselves, to perceive what we are, and learn 

F 



62 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

\vhat we ought to be. At this period, a physical 
change of constitution, turns the operations of the soui 
into a new direction ; conscience awakens itself, and 
strongly suggests the necessity of prostrating our- 
selves before the throne of God. Modesty is the first 
lesson of adversity, and self-distrust the first proof we 
receive of having obtained a knowledge of ourselves. 
The sophistry of the passions is silent, during the se- 
rious, solitary hours which we pass in sincere self- 
examination. If we sometimes probe too deeply, and 
become gloomy and discontented at our situation, or 
fall into superstitious phrenzies, the impressions, alas! 
are too soon effaced. Yet even this excess, when 
compared with its opposite effect, with that fatal su- 
pineness which extinguishes every virtue, is a real 
advantage. The sincere mortification we feel on the 
dibcovery of our defects, is converted by the light of a 
pure and rational faith, into happy ease, and perfect 
tranquility. The fanatic enthusiast presents himself 
before the Almighty much oftener than the supercili- 
ous wit, who scoffs at religion, and calls piety a 
weakness. 

The study of ourselves is so extremely rare, that 
we ought to prize every thing we obtain by it as dear 
and precious treasures. To induce us to renounce 
our flighty, futile dissipations ; to conquer the discon- 
tent which drives us wandering from place to place, 
in search of new objects ; to force us into an examina- 
tion of ourselves : Grief must awaken us from our 
lethargic pleasures, Sorrow must open our eyes to 
the follies of the world, and the cup of Adversity often 
embitter our lips. From a conviction of this truth it 
was, that one of the greatest philosophers of Germa- 
ny, the celebrated Mr. Garve, exclaimed to Doctor 
Spalding and myself, " I am indebted to my mala- 
« dy, for having led me to make a closer scrutiny, and 
« more accurate obserY^tign of my own character.'* 



GN THE MIND AND THE HEART. 63 

The powers of religion and philosophy are, in Soli- 
tude, united to conduct us to the same end. Both of 
them teach us to examine our hearts ; both of them 
tell us, that we cannot guard with too serious an ap- 
prehension against the dangers of fanaticism, nor decry 
them with too loud a voice ; but they also instruct us, 
that if virtue cannot be instilled into the soul, without 
its undergoing some convulsions, yet we ought not to 
be discouraged by the fear of clanger. It is not in the 
moment of joy, when we turn our eyes from God, and 
think not of eternity, that we experience these salutary 
convulsions of the soul. Even religion, with all her 
powers, cannot produce them so soon as a corporeal 
malady, or mental affiction. But if the soul advances 
too slowly in the heroic course of virtue ; if, amidst 
the bustle of the world, the suggestions of conscience 
lose their power, let every one retire, as frequently 
as he possibly can, into Solitude, and there prostrate 
himself before God and his own heart. 

In the last moments of life, it is certain that we all 
wish we had lived more in Solitude, in a greater inti- 
macy with ourselves, and in a closer communion with 
God, Pressed by their recollection, we then clearly 
perceive, that all our faults have happened from not 
shunning the snares of the world ; from not having 
kept a watchful eye upon the wanderings of the heart, 
in the midst of those dangers by which it was sur- 
rounded. If we were to oppose the sentiments of a 
solitary man, who had passed his life in pious confer- 
ence with God, to the sentiments which occupy the 
minds of dissipated men, who never think of their 
Creator, and sacrifice their whole existence to the en- 
joyments of the moment : If we compare the charac- 
ter of a wise man, who reflects in silence on the 
importance of eternity, with that of the fashionable 
being, who consumes all his time at ridottos, balls, 
and assemblies ; we shall then perceive that an incli- 



Si THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

nation for Solitude, a dignified retirement, a desire of 
having a select friend, and a rational society, can alone 
afford us true pleasure, and give us, beyond all the 
vain enjoyments of the world, consolation in death, 
and hopes of eternal life. 

It is, however, upon the bed of death that we dis- 
cover, more than in any other situation, the great 
difference between the just man, who has passed 
his days in calm religious contemplation, and the 
man of the world, whose thoughts have only been 
employe^ to feed his passions, and gratify his desires. 
A life passed amidst the tumultuous dissipations of 
the world, even when unsullied by the commission 
of any crime, concludes, alas ! very differently from 
that which has been spent in Solitude, in innocence, 
in .virtue. 

As example teaches more effectually than precept, 
as curiosity is more alive to recent facts than to remote 
transactions, I shall here relate the history of a man 
of family and fashion, who, a few years since, shot 
Jhimselfin London ; from which it will appear, that 
men possessed even of the best feelings of the heart, 
jnay be rendered extremely miserable, by suffering 
their principles to be corrupted by the practices of 
the world. 

THE Honourable Mr. Dameu, the eldest son of 
Lord Milton, was five and thirty years of age when 
lie put a period to his existence, by means perfectly 
correspondent to the principles on which he had lived. 
He had espoused a rich heiress, the daughter-m-law of 
General Conway. Nature had endowed him with 
extraordinary talents ; and if he had employed them 
for nobler purposes, his death must have made the 
deepest impression on every bosom. Unhappily, 
however, a most infatuated love of dissipation destroy- 
ed all the powers of his mind, and some of the mors 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 65 

excellent qualities of bis heart. His houses, his car* 
riages, his horses, his liveries, surpassed in magnifi- 
cence and elegance, every thing that is sumptuous 
in the metropolis of England. The income he enjoy- 
ed was splendid ; but not being quite sufficient to defray 
all his expences, he felt himself under the necessity of 
borrowing, and he obtained a loan of one hundred and 
twenty thousand pounds. A large portion of the mo- 
ney was immediately employed to succour those of 
his friends who appeared to be distressed ; for his 
sentiments were tender and compassionate : but his 
sensibility to the wants of others at length obliged 
him to open his eyes to his own. The situation in 
which he found his affairs led him to despair ; he re- 
tired to a brothel, sent for four women of the town, 
and passed four hours with infinite gaiety and spirits 
in their company. On the near approach of mid- 
night, he requested they would retire ; and in a few 
moments afterwards, drawing from his pocket a loaded 
pistol, which he had carried about with him all the 
afternoon, blew out his brains. He had passed the 
evening with these women in the same manner as he 
had been used to pass many others, with different wo- 
men of the same description, without insisting on 
favours which they would most willingly have granted. 
The common conversation of such interviews, or at 
most the liberty of a salute, was all he desired or ex- 
pected from them, in return for his money. The 
gratitude he felt for the temporary oblivion which 
these intercourses occasioned, ripened in his bosom 
into the feelings of the warmest friendship. 

A celebrated actress on the London theatre, whose 
conversations had already drained him of considerable 
sums of money, requested of him, only three days 
before his death, to lend her five and twenty guineas. 
He returned an answer, that he had not at that time 
more than eight or ten guineas at his command, and 

F a 



66 THE INFLUENCE OS SOLITUDE 

these he sent to her ; but he immediately borrowed 
the remainder, and gave her the sum required. 

This unhappy young man, shortly before the fatal 
catastrophe, had written to his father, and disclosed 
the real state of his affairs ; and the night, the very 
night on which he terminated bis existence, his affec- 
tionate parent, the good Lord Milton, arrived in 
London, for the purpose of paying all the debts of his 
son. Thus lived and died this destitute and dissipat- 
ed man ! flow different from the life and death of the 
innocent and virtuous 1 

I trust I shall be forgiven in reciting here, the story 
of a Young Lady, whose memory I am anxious to 
preserve ; for I can with great truth say of her, as 
Petrarch said of his beloved Laura, " The world 
" is unacquainted with the excellence of her charac- 
u ter ; for she was only known to those w^horn she has 
" left behind to bewail her fate." 

Solitude, in her mind, supplied the place of the 
world ; for she knew no other pleasures than those 
which a retired and virtuous life affords. Submitting, 
with pious resignation, to all the dispensation of Hea- 
ven, she sustained, although naturally of a weak con- 
stitution, every affliction with undiminished fortitude. 
Mild, good, tender, yet enduring her incessant suffer- 
ings without a murmur or a sigh ; timid, reserved, but 
disclosing all the feelings of her soul with a kind of fi- 
lial enthusiasm : of this description was the superior 
character of whom I now write— a character who con- 
vinced me, by her fortitude under the severests mis- 
fortunes, how much strength Solitude is capable of 
conveying to the minds even of the feeblest beings. — 
Diffident of her own powers, she relied with the most 
perfect confidence upon God ; and guided herself, in 
every thing, by my precepts. Taught by my experi- 
ence, submitting to my judgement, she felt forme 
the most ardent affection ; and, without making any 



ON THE MIIvl5 AKD THE HEART* 6f 

professions, convinced me, by her actions* of its sin- 
cerity. Willingly would I have sacrificed my life to 
save her ; and I am satisfied she would have given her 
own for me. My greatest happiness consisted in do- 
ing every thing that I thought was most agreeable to 
her. She frequently presented me with a rose, a pre- 
sent from which she knew I received considerable de* 
light ; and from her hand it was superior to the richest 
treasure. A mdady of almost a singular kind, a he- 
morrhage of the lungs, suddenly deprived me of the 
comfort of this beloved child, even while I supported 
her in my arms. Acquainted with her constitution, I 
immediately saw the blow was mortal. How frequent* 
ly, during that fatal day, did my wounded, bleeding 
heart bend me on my knees, before my God, to im- 
plore her recovery ! But I concealed my feelings from 
her observation. Although sensible of her danger, she 
never communicated the least apprehension. Smiles 
arose upon her cheeks whenever I entered or quitted 
the chamber. Although worn down by this fatal dis- 
temper, a prey to the most corroding griefs, the sharp- 
est and most intolerable pains, she made no complaint. 
She mildly answered all my questions by some short 
sentence, but without entering into any detail. Her 
decay and approaching dissolution became obvious to 
the eye ; but, to the last moment of her life, her coun- 
tenance preserved a serenity equal to the purity of 
her mind and the affectionate tenderness of her heart. 
Thus I beheld my dear, my only daughter, after a 
lingering sufferance of nine long months, expire in my 
arms ! Exclusive of the usual internal appearances 
which attend a consumption of the lungs, the liver was 
extremely large, the stomach uncommonly small and 
contracted, and the viscera much overcharged. So 
many attacks, alas ! were needless to the conquest— 
:She had been the submissive victim of ill health, from 
her earliest infancy ; her appetite was almost gone 



6S THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

when we left Switzerland ; a residence which she quit- 
ted with her usual sweetness of temper, and without dis* 
covering the smallest regret — although a young man, 
as handsome in his person as he was amiable in the 
qualities of his mind, the object of her first, her only 
affection, a few weeks afterwards put an end to his ex- 
istence, in despair. 

The few happy days we passed at Hanover, where 
she was much respected and beloved, she amused her- 
self by composing religious prayers, which were af- 
terwards found among her papers, and in which she 
implores death to afford her a speedy relief from her 
pains. She wrote, also, many letters, always affect- 
ing and frequently sublime, during the same period : 
they were filled with expressions of the same desire 
speedily to re -unite her soul with the author of her 
days. The last words my dear, my beloved child ut- 
tered, amidst the most painful agonies, were these : — 
4fc To-day I shall' taste the joys of Heaven i" 

We should be unworthy of this bright example if, 
after having seen the severest sufferings sustained by 
a female, in the earliest period of life, and of the weak- 
est constitution by nature, we permitted our minds to 
be dejected by misfortunes, when by the smallest de- 
gree of courage we may be enabled to surmount them. 
A female who, under the anguish of inexpressible tor- 
ments, never permitted the sigh of complaint to es- 
cape from her lips ; but submitted, with silent resign- 
ation, to the will of Heaven, in hope of meeting with 
reward hereafter. She was ever active, invariably 
mild, always compassionate to the miseries of others. 
But we, who have before our eyes the sublime instruc- 
tions which a character thus virtuous and noble has 
given us, under the pressure of a fatal disease, under 
the horrours of continued and bitter agonies ; we, who 
like her, aspire to the attainment of the glorious seat 
of happiness and peace ; refuse to submit to the smal- 



ON THE MIN» AND THE HEART. <3§ 

lest sacrifice, make no endeavour to oppose the storms 
of fortune by the exertion of courage, or to acquire 
that patience and resignation which a candid examina- 
tion of our own hearts, and a silent communion with 
God, would certainly afford. 

Sensible and unfortunate beings ! the lightest afflic- 
tions, when compared with griefs like mine, drive you, 
at present, to disquietude and despair. But you may 
give- credit to experience— they will eventually raise 
your minds above the low considerations of the world, 
and give a strength to your powers which you now 
conceive to be impossible. You now think your- 
selves sunk into the deepest abyss of suffering and 
sorrow ; but the time will soon arrive when you will 
perceive yourselves in that happy situation which lies 
between an attachment to the earth and a fond devo- 
tion to Heaven. You will then feel a calm repose, be 
susceptible of pleasures equally substantial and sub- 
lime ; your minds will be withdrawn from the tumult* 
uous anxieties of life, and filled with serene and com- 
fortable sentiments of immortality. Blessed, supreme- 
ly blessed is that being who knows the value of a life 
passed in retirement and tranquility ; who is capable 
of enjoying the silence of the groves, and the retire- 
ment of rural Solitude. The soul then tastes celes- 
tial pleasures, even under the deepest impressions of 
sorrow and dejection : regains its strength, collects 
new courage, and acts with perfect freedom. The eye 
looks with steadiness on the transient sufferings of dis- 
ease ; the mind no longer feels a dread of Solitude ; 
and we learn to cultivate, during the remainder of our 
lives, a bed of roses round even the tomb of death. 



TO THE INFLUENCE O'F SOLITUDE 

'CHAPTER THE THIRD. 

THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE UTON THE MIND* 



T. 



HE inestimable value of liberty, can only be con- 
ceived by minds that are free. Slaves are forced to 
be content, even in their bondage. He who has been 
long tossed about by the vicissitudes of fortune ; who 
has learned from the sufferings of his own experience 
to form a just estimate of men and things ; who can 
examine every object with impartiality ; and, walking 
in the steep and narrow paths of virtue, derive 
Irs happiness from his own mind, may be accounted 

FREE. 

The path of virtue is indeed rugged, dreary, and 
unsocial ; but it conducts the mind from painful dim* 
culties to sublime repose, and gently carries us over 
the acclivities of life, into the delightful and extensive 
plains of happiness and ease. The love of Solitude, 
when cultivated to a certain extent, at an early period 
of our lives, inspires the heart with a noble independ- 
ence ; especially in the breasts of those youths, whose 
easy, uncorrupted souls are yet susceptible of virtuous 
impressions : it is to«such characters alone that my 
precepts can prove useful ; it is to such characters 
alone, I here pretend to point out the way which 
leads to true felicity. 

I do not, however, wish to conduct them through 
the paths of misery to the retreats of Solitude, but 
would rather induce them to seek retirement from a 
dislike to dissipation, a distaste to the idle pleasures 
of life, a contempt for the treacherous professions of 
the world, a dread of being seduced by its insinuating 
and deceitful gaieties. 



€>N THE MIND ANfc THE HEART. 7.1 

Many men have acquired and experienced in Soli- 
tude that superiority of genius which 'enables its 
possessors to command events. Like the majestic ce- 
dar which braves the fury of the wildest wind, there 
are many champions of virtue who have resisted in 
retirement the storms of vice. It has indeed happen- 
ed, that some men have retained, even in Solitude, all 
the weaknesses of human nature ; but there are also 
many others, who have proved that wise men cannot 
become degenerate, even in the most dreary seclusion. 
Visited by the august spirits of the dead, left to listen 
to their own thoughts, and secluded from the sight of 
^every breathing object, they must converse with God 
alone. 

There are two periods of life in which Solitude be- 
comes peculiarly useful : In youth, to acquire a fund 
of useful information, to form the outline of the cha- 
racter we mean to support, and to fix the modes of 
thinking we ought through life invariably to pursue : 
in age, to cast a retrospective eye on the course of 
the life we have led, to reflect on the events that have 
happened, upon all the flowers we have gathered, up- 
on ail the tempests we have survived. 

Lord Bolingbroke says, that there is not a deep- 
er nor a finer observation in all Lord Bacon's works, 
than the following, " We must chuse, betimes, such 
* virtuous objects as are proportioned to the means 
" we have of pursuing them, and as belong particu- 
" larly to the stations we are in, and the duties of 
" those stations. We must determine and fix ou? 
" minds in such a manner upon them, that the pur- 
" suit of them may become the business, and the 
M attainment of them the end of our whole lives*. 

Lord Bolingbroke, in his " Idea of a Patriot' 
King, 11 has paraphrased the original, " Ut continuo ~ver- 
f tat et efformet se animus, una ofiera, in virtutes 
" omnes, 11 in order to apply it with greater effect to the 
occasion for which he quotes it. 



72 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

w Thus we shall imitate the great operations of nature, 
" and not the feeble, slow, and imperfect operations of 
u art. We must not proceed in forming* the moral 
« character, as a statuary proceeds in forming a statue, 
" who works sometimes on the face, sometimes on 
" one part, and sometimes on another ; but we must 
" proceed, and it is in our power to proceed, as nature 
" does in forming a flower, or any other of her pro- 
** ductions ; redimenta fiartium omnium dmul fiaret et 
W {ivodutit ; she throws out altogether and at once 
« the whole system of every being, and the rudiments 
« of all the parts." 

Ye amiable youths, from whose minds the artifices 
and gaieties of the world have not yet obliterated the 
precepts of a virtuous education ; who are not yet in- 
fected with its, inglorious vanities ; who, still ignorant 
of the tricks and blandishments of seduction, have 
preserved in your souls the desire to perform some 
glorious action, and retained the power to accom- 
plish it ; who* in the midst of feasting, dancing, and 
assemblies, feel an inclination to escape from their 
unsatisfactory delights — Solitude will afford you a 
safe asylum. Let the voice of experience recommend 
you to cultivate a fondness for domestic pleasure, to 
rouse and fortify your souls to noble deeds, to acquire 
that fine and noble spirit which teaches you to esti- 
mate the characters of men, and the pleasures of 
society, by their intrinsic values. 

You will find it absolutely necessary to force your- 
selves from a world too trifling and insignificant to 
afford you any great examples. It is in studying the 
characters of the Greeks, the Romans, the English, 
that you must learn to surmount every difficulty. In 
what nation will you find more celebrated instances of 
human greatness ? What people possess more valour 
and courage, more firmness, more knowledge, a 
greater love for the arts and sciences ? But do not 



• N THE MIKD AND THE HEART. 73 

deceive yourselves by believing that wearing the hair 
cut short will make you Englishmen. You must, in- 
stead of that, eradicate the vices, subdue the weaknes- 
ses of your nature, and only imitate them in their 
peculiar greatness. It is the love of liberty, the quali- 
ties of courage, penetration, sublimity of sentiment, 
and strength of reason, that constitute the true Eng- 
lishman, and not their half-boots and jockey' hats. It 
is -virtue alone, and not titles, that elevates the charac- 
ters of men. An illustrious descent is certainly an 
advantage, but not a merit. I honour you for having 
already formed a proper estimate of these splendid 
trifles, for having already learned, that he who vene- 
rates such little objects, can never attain to greatness. 
Let women only boast of hereditary descent, of a line 
of ancestors, who, during a course of centuries, were, , 
perhaps, distinguished from the rest of mankind, 
merely by the splendour of their equipage, while the 
humble citizen was forced to follow on foot. In trac- 
ing your genealogies, reckon those only among the 
jiumber of your ancestors, who have performed some 
great and glorious action, whose fame shines with, 
.brilliancy in every page of their country's history, and 
whose characters are cited with applause and admira- 
tion in distant nations : but never lose sight of this 
important truth, that no one can be truly great, with- 
out a knowledge of himself. 

In your journey through life, two ways lie open tr 
your choice. The one will conduct you to a fragrant 
garden, through delightful groves, perfumed with 'he 
sweetest odours, where a verdant bed, bedecked with 
roses, will invite your enchanted senses to a soft re- 
pose ; this is the path of pleasure, which the multi- 
tude are easily seduced to follow, and where music, 
dancing, and love, offer to every sense such variety 
of delight. The other is a less frequented way. rug- 
ged and uneven, the progress through it slow, wbery. 



74 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

while the wearied passenger toils along, he frequently 
tumbles down some dangerous precipice, which to him 
appeared at a greater distance. Here the cries of 
savage animals alone are heard, the incessant croak* 
iugs of the boding raven, the sharp and shivering 
hisses of the wily serpent ; and the silent unbounded 
desait which reigns around, inspires the mind with 
terror and affright. The path of pleasure leads us to 
the world ; the rude and rugged way is the road to 
honour. The one conducts you through society, to 
places and employments either in the city or at court ; 
the other, sooner or lately Will lead you into Solitude. 
Upon the one road you will, perhaps, become a vil? 
lain ; a villain rendered dear and amiable by your vices 
to society. Upon the other road, it is true, you may 
be hated and despised ; but you will become a man ; 
a man after my own heart. 

The rudiments of a great character must be formed 
in Solitude. It is there alone that the solidity of 
thought, the fondness for activity, the abhorrence of 
indolence, which constitute the hero and the sage, are 
first acquired. Many celebrated Germans of my ac? 
quaintance, lived solitary lives, unconnected with so- 
ciety, during their residence at the university. They 
shunned the fashionable vices of the collegians, and 
preserved their native purity ; they adopted a stoi- 
cism, and preserved not only their chastity, but their 
application to study. They are now become ministers 
of state, celebrated writers, and great philosophers, 
who have diffused wisdom, banished prejudice, and 
from their earliest youth, opened new roads in life, 
utterly unknown to vulgar minds. 

A tribute of the highest gratitude is due to the no- 
ble character who has observed, " When you behold 
" a youth of solid parts withdraw himself from the 
•« world, fail into a low and melancholy humour, be? 
" come silent in company, and testify by the severity 



Otf THE MINB Atf» THE HEART. 75 

H of his manners, and coldness of his feelings, that 
" the contemptible beings with whom he has associa « 
* ted have inspired his soul with disgust ; if ycu per 
¥ ceive that his mind emits its rays like flashes oi 
« lightning in the obscurity of a dark night, and then 
¥ fails into a long and silent calm ; if you discover that 
" he feels himself surrounded by a painful void, and 
" that every object which presents itself only inspires 
" his mind with new aversion and disgust ; you 
" then behold, notwithstanding-, he has not openly 
" complained, a happy plant, which only requires the 
" cultivation of a judicious hand to bring forth its 
H fruits, and disclose its beauties. O ! apply to it a 
u fostering care. It will become worthy of your kind- 
" ness ; and he who stops the progress of its life, is 
" the most detestable of murderers." 

To rear a youth of this description, would form the 
joy and pleasure of my future days. I would nourish 
him in my very heart. I would watch over him with 
the tenderest care. I would conceal his growing vir- 
tues from the jealous and malignant observation of en- 
vious eyes ; prevent their endeavours to suppress the 
d'fjvts of a genius surpassing their own ; and, with a 
a single whisper, I would drive away those noxious 
vermin, enervated and insipid men of fashion, from 
my healthful plant. If, however, such an amiable 
youth did not immediately listen to my voice and be- 
come obe'dient to my precepts ; if he did not alto- 
gether despise the manners of the world, I would let 
him occasionally sail among the rocks of life, and 
permit him to be gently wrecked in situations where 
experience, deficient of the powers of youth, would 
have escaped from danger. 

Solitude sometimes begets a degree of arrogance 
and obstinancy ; but a little experience in the world 
soon eradicates these defects. The misanthropy of 
these noble youths, their contempt of folly, and the'r 



76 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

pride of spirit, changes by the maturity of age Tnto 
dignity of character, and gives them a more gene- 
rous intrepidity, a more exalted contempt of that fear 
which youth naturally entertain in the society of men. 
The satires they once dreaded then lose all their keen- 
ness, and only form a contrast of what things are 
with what they ought to be. Their contempt for 
vice rises into a noble enthusiasm for virtue ; and 
they extract from the long intellectual war of expe- 
rience a complete knowledge of the world, and a com- 
passionate feeling which, however it may occasion- 
ally swerve, will never die. 

But there is also a science of the heart too fre- 
quently neglected, and with which it is necessary, at 
least as far as it is possible, to familiarise ourselves in 
early youth. This is the noble science of philosophy, 
which forms the characters of men, which teaches us 
to attain the end we wish rather by the blandishments 
of love than by the efforts of power ; a science which 
corrects the cold dictates of reason by the warm feel- 
ings of the heart, opens to view the dangers to which 
they are exposed, animates the dormant faculties of 
the mind, and prompts them to the practice of all 
the virtues. 

Dion had been brought up in all the baseness and 
servility of courts ; he was cccustomed to a life of 
softness and effeminacy, and, which is more perni- 
cious, to a life of great magnificence, profusion, and 
pleasure of every kind : but no sooner had he read 
the divine Plato, no sooner had he tasted of that re- 
fined philosophy which leads to a life of virtue, than 
his whole soul became deeply enamoured of its charms. 

The inspirations which Dion caught from reading 
the works of Plato, every mother may, silently and 
unperceived, pour into the mind of her child. Philo- 
sophy, from the lips of a wise and sensible mother^ 
penetrates into the mind through the feelings of the* 



• » THE MIND AND THE HEART. 7 7 

heart. Who is not fond of walking even through the 
roughest and most difficult path, when conducted by 
the hand they love ? What species of instruction can 
excel the sweet lessons which proceed from a female 
mind, endowed with a sound understanding, an elevat- 
ed style of thinking, and whose heart feels all the 
affection that her precepts inspire ? Oh ! may every 
mother so endowed, be blessed with a child who fond- 
ly retires with her to her closet, and listens yvitfi 
delight to her instructions ; who, with a book in his 
pocket, loves to climb among the rocks, alone ; who, 
when engaged in rural sport, throws himself at the 
foot of some venerable tree, and seeks rather to trace 
out great and illustrious characters in the pages of 
Plutarch, than to toil for game in the thickets of 
the surrounding woods. The wishes of a mother are 
accomplished when the Solitude and silence of the 
forests excite such thoughts in the mind of her be- 
- loved child* ; when he begins to" think that there are 
still greater characters than the Burgomaster and 
Counsellor of the town, or even than the noble Lord 
ef the surrounding villages ; characters who enjoy 
more pure and elevated pleasures than the gaming ta- 
ble or assemblies are capable of affording ; characters 
who at every interval of liesure seek the shades of So- 
litude with rapture and delight ; in whose minds, the 
love of literature and philosophy has dwelt from their 
earliest infancy ; whose hearts these studies have 
warmed and animated at every subsequent period of 
their lives ; and who, amidst the greatest dangers, 
preserve that delightful taste which has power to ban- 
ish melancholy from the deepest cavern, and dejection 
from the most frightful desert. 

* " Minim est," says the younger Pliny, " ut animus 
M agitatione moteque corparis excitetur. Jam undique 
" silva et Solitude ifisommaue illud silentiu?n 9 quod ve- 
w wtimi datur 7 magna cozriiationis incit amenta sunt*' 

■ G s 



75 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

But suppose a son thus educated at length fixed in 
the metropolis ; think how every object must excite 
disgust in his breast, and render him unhappy. It is, 
therefore, proper to instruct him, that a wise and sen- 
sible man, whatever may be his situation in life, his 
age, or the country he inhabits, may find in Solitude 
innumerable resources against the insipidity of socie- 
ty, and all the false and deceitful joys of the world. 

The provincial towns possess many advantages 
over great and populous cities, by bringing us back 
to a knowledge of ourselves. With what superior 
pleasure do we pass our time, how much more lei- 
sure, liberty, and quietude we enjoy in an humble 
village than in a great city, where the mind is con- 
tinually distracted by too great variety of objects 1 
Here we live contented with ourselves, without being 
every morning tormented with a number of messages, 
by incessant proposals of some new scheme to kill the 
day. Here we are not necessitated to sacrifice every 
domestic care, all the occupations of the mind, even 
the sweet converse of those we love, to endless visits. 
The quietude of rural retirement affords us opportu- 
nity to follow the course of our sentiments and ideas, 
to examine whether they are just, before we deter- 
mine on our choice ; in great cities, on the contrary, 
men act first, and reflect on their conduct afterwards. 
In a village, the impressions we receive are more 
lively and profound ; whilst in great cities, time is 
entirely employed to create amusements, which vanish 
the moment they are approached ; the bosom enjoys 
no repose, and while it sighs for rest, the hope, desire, 
ambition, duty, languor, disgust, and contrition which 
it eternally feels, drives it forever away. 

But the minds of those who have retired to the calm 
scenes of rural life, are frequently as vacant and de- 
serted as the hamlets in which they live ; and they 
find the leisure, and happy leisure which they enjoy 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. P§ 

without knowing its value, tedious and irksome. 
There are, indeed, very few who have acquired the 
art of rendering Solitude useful and rational. Men of 
rank proudly fancy that their honour would be degrad- 
ed by the company of rustics, and, in consequence of 
this mistaken idea, prefer a life of constraint, avoid all 
intercourse, and live in splendid languor, rather than 
enjoy a free and happy life with rational and honest 
peasants. They ought to adopt a conduct directly 
the reverse, especially when they are discontented 
with themselves : they ought to mix familiarly in the 
company of all honest men, and acquire the esteem of 
every one by their kindness and attentions, The low- 
liest clown capable of communicating a new thought, 
or of raising one agreeable sentiment in the mind, is, 
on that account, a very interesting companion to a 
man who is at a loss how to employ his time, who 
is tormented by vexation and ill-humour. Those to 
whom time is a burthen, should not despise even the 
humblest character ; and in the rural retreat, the 
shepherd and the King should live on equal terms, 
forget the paltry distinctions of birth, and all the pre- 
judices which the manners of the world have raised, 
respecting the difference of their situation. This con- 
duct would, at least, be more pleasing than to hear a 
rustic reprobating the venality of the nobility, only be- 
cause the gentlemen of his neighbourhood refuse to 
admit him into their company. 

The only way, as it appears to me, by which men 
of distinction can live happy in the country, is to de- 
port themselves peaceably and affably to every one, to 
feel and to exercise an universal attention and kind 
concern for the comfort of others, and to grant them 
as much of their time and conversation as they shall 
think proper. 

It is impossible to conceive what advantages the mind 
gains in the Solitude of a sequestered village, when it 



83 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

once begins to feel disgust at the tiresome intercourses 
of the great world. Life is no where so completely 
enjoyed ; the happy days of youth are no where more 
advantageously employed ; a rational mind can no 
where find greater opportunities of employing its 
time ; the dangers even of Solitude itself are no where 
sooner learned, or more easily avoided. Every little 
village may be considered as a convent, where a small 
society of persons, distant and detached from the 
world, are confined to few ideas ; where, for that rea- 
son, the passions of the wicked ferment and discharge 
themselves with greater force : and where calm and 
honest minds must associate with congenial characters, 
or retire to Solitude, in their humble cell. 

Small towns resemble each other in certain material 
points, and only differ in the manner by which they 
are governed. The mind is never subjected to a more 
odious tyranny than that which prevails in these little 
republics ; where not only the rich citizen erects him- 
self into a proud master over his less wealthy equals ; 
but where the contracted notions of this little tyrant 
become, if unopposed, the standard of reason to all the 
town. 

The members of small republics care only for them- 
selves, and feel little anxiety about any thing that pas- 
ses beyond their own limits. The all-powerful and 
imperious Governour considers his little territory as 
the universe. His breath alone decides every question 
that is proposed at the Guild-Hall ; and the rest of his 
time is wholly occupied in maintaining his authority 
over the minds of his fellow-citizens, in relating anec- 
dotes of families, circulating superstitious tales, talk- 
ing of the price of corn, the collection of tythes, the 
rents of his manors, hay -harvest, vintage-time, or the 
next market. Next to God, he is, within his own lit- 
tle tow T n, the greatest man upon the face of the earth. 
The humble, honest .citizen, stands with fear and tren> 



ON THE MIND AND TSTE HEART. 8i 

bling in the presence of his redoubtable majesty ; for 
he knows that he is able to ruin him, by an immediate 
process. The wrath of an upstart magistrate is more 
terrible than the thunder of Heaven ; for this soon 
passes away, but that remains forever. The good 
judges of a provincial town raise their proud heads, 
and look down with contempt on the humble suitors ; 
govern, order, censure and condemn, without regard 
to truth or justice ; and their approbation or dislike, 
establishes in creditor consigns to infamy. 

The inhabitants of these towns are, in general, much 
addicted to Law : an attorney is, in their eyes, the 
brightest genius ; the sacred voice of Reason is an 
empty sound ; in vain she cries aloud, for they only 
believe that right which the court of justice shall decree. 
If one among them should absent himself from their 
meetings, and, yielding to reflection, should think and 
act with liberality or candour, they suspect him of 
some intention to impose on them ; for, except in the 
religious order, they have no idea of a studious man : 
and language will not furnish any word expressive 
of the high contempt in which they hold a literary 
character. They are ignorant that reason and sufier^ 
stition are contradictory terms. The man who smiles 
at their credulity in believing- that some misfortune is 
impending, because a hen has laid her egg before their 
door, a crow has croaked upon the chimney-top, or a 
mouse has run along the floor, cannot, in their idea, 
possess the least religion. They are yet ignorant that 
men are no longer considered free-thinkers, for hum- 
bly doubting whether the frequent spots in linen an- 
nounce the death of some beloved relation. They 
know not, alas ! that it is possible to become servicea- 
ble to mankind, without having ever opened their lips 
in the town hall ; and that, at all events, they may 
hereafter be noticed by the really great and good, not- 
withstanding they have happened to incur the displease 



82 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

ure of the great men of their little town. They are 
unconscious that there are men of independent spirits 
in the world, and that they are the only beings who 
would so tamely endure a mean submission to the little 
tyrant of their poor domain. They do not feel that an 
honest man will only bow before the Deity himself ; 
only submit to the laws of his country ; only reverence 
superior talents, obey virtue, respect merit, and smile 
at the vain wrath and ludicrous appearance of the pro- 
vincial magistrate, when he receives him in anger, with 
his hat upon his head. The? do not perceive that 
Slander^ the common scourge of every country towri, 
is only the vice of those narrow minds who visit their 
neighbour merely to spy out his errours., and report* 
With increased malevolence, whatever they can find 
wrong, either in his house, his kitchen or his cellar. — . 
In short, they who are ignorant of so many things, 
cannot be apprised, that they would soon tire of the idle 
talk and chatter of a country town, that they would no 
longer amuse themselves in picking out their neigh- 
bours faults, if they were once acquainted with the ad- 
vantages of Solitude ; with what a noble ardour would 
they baldly proceed through the road of science, and, 
superior to the%ieatfness of envy, free from the dis- 
grace of calumny, would steadily pursue the path of 
virtue with hardiness ana vigour. 

A determined resolution to lead a life of Solitude is 
the only remedy that can he adopted in a situation like 
this. An universal philanthropy for all the world will 
not silence the tongue of envy ; for even to such a con- 
duct the world will always impute interested motives ; 
we must therefore live without affording such oppor- 
tunities to calumny, and, with the exception of those 
whom we love and revere, turn our backs on the rest 
of mankind. . . 

A virtuous young man, who perhaps aspires to ad- 
vance himself in life, will not in the world find the 



ON THE MIN© AND THE HEART, §3 

least assistance. In no one of the fashionable circles 
will he meet with information or encouragement ; he 
will neither make himself known or beloved ; and if 
he should excite attention, he will not be understood ; 
they will consider him as a weak ridiculous character, 
who, instead of seeking by adulation to gain the inter- 
est of the great and powerful, prefers the pleasure of 
writing or reading by himself. In vain has he been. 
reared in the bosom of a liberal and enlightened fami- 
ly ; in vain has he received his education among the 
noblest characters ; in vain are his principles estab- 
lished by a correspondence with the best and most 
learned philosophers of the age ; for these advantages 
only afford greater inducement to oppress his activity 
stnd stop his course. 

Does the ear hear or the heart feel all this in a pror 
vincial town, to which the refinements of the metro- 
polis have not yet spread ? What man will continue 
to patronize him, unless he becomes dexterous in af- 
fording useful accommodation to those in whose hands 
the whole power resides ; from whom alone hunger 
can receive bread, or industry procure employment ; 
to wiiose will every thing is submitted ; who direct 
and govern every movement ; and by wiiose nod, hon? 
our, fame, esteem, are conferred or taken away ; His 
mind must cautiously conceal the superiority of its 
knowledge ; his eyes must appear blind to what he 
sees ; his heart seem senseless of what he feels ; he 
must constantly listen to a loose and frothy conversa- 
tion, during which, however fatiguing it may be, he is 
denied the privilege of yawning, and is ruined for 
ever, if, by his silence, he permits the shadow of dis- 
satisfaction to appear. He will be despised as a man 
pf sense and understanding, notwithstanding he uses 
every endeavour to be thought otherwise*. Surround- 

* " A man of an enlightened mind" says Helvetius ? 
( f with whatever address he may conceal his character^ 



84 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

ed by so much deformity, both he and his friends 
might blush for want of that distinguishing eminence 
upon the back, but that he hears them gravely talk at 
the Hotel de Viile upon the important care of a stable, 
much oftener than they meet in London and Versailes 
to decide upon the fate of Europe ; and must sit with 
as much attention to hear them argue upon the right 
of a partition-wall, as if he was placed in the synod of 
the gods. Perceiving, therefore, that presumption, 
ignorance, and proud stupidity are infinitely in higher 
estimation than the noblest exercise of reason ; that 
men of the dullest apprehensions are the most forward 
and impudent ; that their vain and idle boastings a- - 
lone model the wit and direct the opinion of the day ; 
that envy fastens itself most inveterately upon the en- 
lightened and well-informed ; that philosophy, is con- 
sidered as a contemptible delirium, and liberty mis- 
taken for a spirit of revolt : perceiving in short, that 
it is impossible to succeed, unless by means of the 
most servile complaisance and the most degrading 
submission, what can save a sensible and ingenious 
youth from the perils of such a scene but Solitude ? 
The poor poet Martial,! on his return to Bibilis, 
the place of his nativity, in Sftain^ after having lived 
thirty-four years among the most learned and enlight- 
ened men of Rome, found nothing but a dreary desart, 
a frightful Solitude. Unable to form a society which 
could afford him the smallest pleasure, a painful lan- 
guor preyed upon his mind. Forced to associate with 
persons who felt no pleasure in the elegant delights of 
literature, who possessed no knowledge of the sciences, 

<( can never so exactly resemble a fool as a fool resem- 
" bles himself." 

t " Accedit his" says Martial, in the preface to the 
Twelfth Book of his Epigrams, " municifialimn rubigo 
" dentium etjudicii loco livor — adversus quod difficile 
U est habere quetidh bonum somachum" 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART* S3 

he sighed incessantly to re-visit the beloved metropo- 
lis where he had acquired such universal fame and ap- 
probation ; where his good sense, his penetration and 
sagacity were praised ; where his writings were pro- 
mised im mortality, by the admiration of the Younger 
Pliny, to whom they appeared to possess equal sharp- 
ness, wit, and ease ; whilst on the contrary, in the 
stupid town of Bibilis^ his fame only acquired him that 
which in small cities will ever attend an excellent 
character, envy and contempt. 

In general, however, in all small towns the mind 
^regains by occasional Solitude that which it has lost 
by its commerce with the world. If it be absolutely 
jiecessary that, you should be absurd through polite- 
ness, and blind with your eyes completely open ; if, 
in the insipid circles of fashion, you are obliged to 
conceal your ideas and subdue your feelings ; if you 
are forced to listen, with attention, to that which you 
would rather be deaf than hear ; if you must be chain- 
ed to the slavery of the gating table, although there 
is no punishment to you so severe ; if every happy 
thought must be strangled in its birth, all brilliancy 
of expression suppressed, the looks of love concealed^ 
and honest truth disguised ; if your whole time must 
be devoted to please characters who are ignorant of 
your merit— O, reflect ! — that, in such a situation 
the enervated spirit lies buried in cold obscurity, like 
the lire in theflint untouched by steel ; that your soul 
may languish many years in this dangerous apathy ; 
and, making a noble effort, fly from the feasts aad co- 
teries of your corrupted city, retire into the tranquili- 
ty of domestic comfort, seek the silence of the groves, 
live in the society of your own heart, and taste, as 
your reward, the charms of that inestimable liberty 
which you have so long neglected to obtain. 

Freed from the world, the veil which dimmed the . 
'sight will immediately vanish"; the clouds which eb- 

H 



86 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

scnred the light of reason disappear ; the painful bur- 
then which oppressed the soul is alleviated ; we no lon- 
ger wrestle with misfortunes, because we know how to 
soften them ; we no longer murmur against the dis* 
pensaticris of Providence, but reflect with calmness 
and serenity on the advantages we have derived from 
Solitude. The contented heart soon acquires the hab^ 
it of patience ; every corroding care flies from our 
breast on the wings of gaiety ; and on every side agree- 
able and interesting scenes present themselves to eur 
view : — the brilliant sun, sinking behind the lofty 
mountains, tinging their snow-crowned summits with 
gold ; the feathered choir, hastening to their mossy 
homes, to taste the sweets of calm repose ; the proud 
crowing of the amorous cock ; the slow march of the 
oxen, retiring from their daily toil ; the noble activity 
of the generous steed : surrounded by such objects, 
we receive the visits of intruders with an open air, 
and, provided they do not too frequently interrupt the 
pleasures of our retreat, we reconcile our hearts to all 
mankind. 

But it is still more necessary to save ourselves from 
the dangers of the metropolis, than from those of the 
provincial towns. The follies and vices of high life 
are much more contagious than those ©f the simple cit- 
izen. Kow soon the finest beams of the imagination 
die away ! How soon does goodness lose its power, 
where sense and truth are constantly despised ; where 
strong and energetic minds inspire aversion ; and the 
virtues are thrown aside as an inconvenient and oppress 
sive yoke ! How soon does the human mind become 
weak and superficial, when separated from those by 
whom it might be enlightened and adorned i How 
suddenly do all the finer feelings of the heart, and the 
noblest efforts of the mind decay, in the company of 



©K THE MIND AND THE HEART. 87 

those ostentations characters who affect to disdain all 
taste, all pleasure, in mixed societies,* 

The great and fashionable, however, are, In every 
country, esteemed the best company ; but the great, 
unhappily, are not, in truth, always the best— hawevei? 
they may think proper to contemn the inferior orders 
of mankind. Whoever can deduce his nobility thro' 
a course of sixteen descents, the value of his character 
is invariably fixed ; the courts of princes and the man- 
sions of the great are open to receive him ; and where 
merit is overlooked, he almost universally acquires 
precedency over the man whose merit is his only re- 
commendation ; — -but those qualities which alone can 
render him valuable as a man, his excellency must 
learn in societies where the powers of the mind and 
the virtues of the heart alone confer dignity and dis- 
tinction. Let such a character, if he should chance to 
find one solitary moment, while he is waiting in the 
anti-chamber of a prince, examine, with rational calm- 
ness, all those high prerogatives of which he is so 
,\>roud — which, in his estimation, place him so far 
above the ordinary level of mankind, and induce him 
to retrace his descent to the creation of the world ; and 
he will find, that titles and genealogies, without mer- 
it, resemble those air-balloons which rise high only in 
proportion to their want of weight. 

In almost every country, however, these titles of no- 
bility separate a certain class of men from their fellow 
citizenswhoare 5 in genera!, better informed, more wise, 
more virtuous, and not un frequently possessed of that 
true nobility, a great and honourable character ! Men 
who have nothing to depend on for their fame, rank, or 

* The French is, " Assernhlees sans oevre melee'' : to 
which is subjoined the following exf donation : u These, 
" in the style of the German nobility, are assemblies fropt 
** which not, only all commoners are excluded, but all those 
u 7v/iQse nobility even is liable to the least suspicion*' 



SB THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

establishment in the world, but a line of ancestors, not 
always the most respectable ; who, relying solely on 
the merit of their birth, never seek to acquire any oth- - 
cr, because it is the only merit of which they have any 
idea — have, in all companies, the highest precedency* 
It is true, that such men are generally acquainted with 
the newest modes of dress ; conduct, with superior 
skill, the varying fashions ; understand the bon ton ; 
exemplifying the etiquette and manners of the day ; 
and, conceiving; they were formed for the refinements 
of sensuality and voluptuousness, fancy themselves, 
of course, endowed with the most delicate and sensible 
faculties. 

Languor and disgust, however, penetrate even into 
those iliustiious assemblies, from whence even the pure 
and ancient nobility exclude the profane vulgar. This 
proposition may, perhaps, at first view, appear a para- 
dox. But listen to the manner in which a lady, whose 
personal qualifications rendered her more respectable 
than even the splendour of her birth, explained this* 
enigma : 

" The men of whom our select parties are composed, | 
" do not always possess the same taste and sentiment 
" with respect to these assemblies ; but it is still more 
" rare for the women to be really fond of them. It is, 
" in general, the lot of the great to possess a great 
" deal by their birth, to desire much more than they 
" possess, and to enjoy nothing. In consequence of 
" this disposition, they fly- to places of pubfick resort, 
" in search of each other ; they meet without feeling 
" the smallest pleasure, and mix among the groupe 
" without being observed." " What is it, then, that 
u re-unites them ?" asked I. — Ci It is their ran^" she 
replied — " and afterwards custom, lassitude, and the 
" continual desire of dissipation ; a desire inseparably 
" attached to persons of our condition." 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. £9 

Since it is really possible to experience disgust and 
languor in the assemblies and other entertainments of 
the great, let us examine if Solitude may not have 
an useful influence on the minds even of this class of 
persons. 

Misled by- false information, the nobility main- 
tain, that all the pleasures of Solitude center in a con- 
tempt of the world and hatred of mankind ; or, what is 
still worse, that misanthropy is the only basis on which 
they are founded. On the contrary, I am perfectly 
satisfied that their minds feel much more spleen and 
mortification, on their return from 'a publick assembly, 
than they possessed when they quitted home— to see 
the world. In Solitude there can be no contention : — 
On the contrary, how many men there are, who, fre- 
quenting publick places with the vain hope of enjoying 
a transient pleasure, find all their addresses refused, 
and only experience accumulated pain ! The sober 
voice of reason is there but faintly heard—- while the 
|ight, unmeaning tongue of folly is listened to with de- 
Ight ; our intellectual communications afford no rel- 
sh ; no reciprocity of sentiment prevails ; the ap- 
pearance of satisfaction frequently excites envy, and a 
serenity of mind is misconstrued into sadness. The 
respective members of a numerous assembly are, in 
general, actuated by such different and opposite inter- 
ests, that it is impossible to reconcile them with each 
other. — Ask that young and lovely girl, if, in a publick 
assembly, she always experienced the pleasures which 
she hoped to find ? Ask her if her heart is not tortur- 
ed with vexation, when the rich and youthful beau, un? 
fascinated by her charms, pays his addresses to some 
rival Ueauty ? Ask this rival beauty, what pangs her 
bosom feels when she perceives herself supplanted by 
some happier fair ? and let this last acknowledge what 
kind of pleasure she receives, if her admirer pays the 
least attention even to the fair female whom her heart 
H 2 



90 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

p 

adores. Ask that sober matron whose bosom, hereto- 
fore, has felt these torments, if she is not furious, al- 
most, when higher compliments are passed on the 
beauty of youth than on the wisdom of age ? 

An English gentleman whom 1 met in Germany, 
said, in a manner extremely picturesque, " There are 
" women who are eternally jealous that you do not pay 
" them sufficient respect, and who, in consequence, 
u assume an arrogance which would be insupportable 
" even in an Empress ; while she might, by complai- 
M sant smiles, not only render every one about her 
" pleased and happy, but obtain their admiration and 
M applause. The false dignity of such characters ruf- 
" fles their tempers, like quills upon the fretful por- 
" eupine, or the feathers of a turkey cock in wrath." 

The most dissipated man must surely view such 
characters with abhorrence and disgust ; and if he se- 
riously reflects how many there are, wIk careless of 
distinguishing between appearances and reality, feel 
with equal indifference the love of truth and dread of 
falsehood ; 'now frequently the company, who compose 
what is styled good company, are, even in the judge! 
Bient and opinion of their sincerest and most liberal 
admirers, dazzled by false brilliancy, and gratified by 
the most trifling information ; that they shun with 
terror the advantages of reflection, tranquility and so- 
litude ; that they prefer a life of incessant dissipation, 
and seldom consult their judgements or exercise their 
understandings ; that they rather expect to receive 
pleasure from others, than endeavour to find it within 
themselves ; conduct themselves by casual advice, 
rather than take the trouble of thinking for them- 
selves ; that amidst the most favorable opportunities 
to observe and study the human character, they nei- 
ther think nor speak but by the information of others ; 
that they guide themselves by the prejudices of their 
education the pride of their rank, and the dictates ef 



I 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 91 

fashion ; that they blindly adopt and defend the reign- 
ing opinion of the moment ; and revolve continually 
round the same circle of defective notions, false ideas, 
and obscure expressions : — in reflecting on these er- 
rours, the most dissipated man must exclaim with one 
of the most virtuous and respectable sages of Germa- 
ny, " To be forced to frequent this good company, is 
" to a thinking and judicious 'mind, one of the greatest 
" torments of life ; but when a wise man is obliged, 
u from indispensable motives, to endure this torment, 
" he will learn by experience to feel in a still higher 
" degree, the inestimable value of a rational Solitude." 

Men oi the world, therefore, if they act with can- 
dour, and in the sincerity of their hearts, examine the 
merits of these societies, will soon entertain the deep- 
est contempt for this noisy and tumultuous scene of 
life, learn to prefer the calm delights of Solitude, and 
feel a happy inclination growing in the bosom, to dis- 
play in more laudable pursuits, the strength and ener- 
gy of the mind. In these frequent vicissitudes of life, 
;<iii this succession of embarrassments, in this continual 
distraction of the mind, every intellectual power evapo- 
rates. 

By this scrupulous attention to all the duties of po- 
liteness, running incessantly from door to door to gain 
information of every man's health, we may, indeed, 
pay the court of flattery to both high and low ; but we 
also thereby most shamefully sacrifice our lives. The 
passion for play, not only consumes time, but ener- 
vates the spirits ; while the obligations of gallantry 
reduce the soul to the most abject state of servitude. 

The other entertainments of the great and gay, are 
of as little value as their conversations. The man on 
whom Heaven has only bestowed the talent of dancing, 
will make but a poor figure in society. The cour- 
tier, whose conversation entirely consists of observa- 
tionsj that " this is contrary to the established cti- 



£2 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

" queite — that is the newest fashion — these are the 
" rnost elegant embroideries en silk, cloth, and velvet 
« — in such a month there will be a gala," — is a 
creature still more pitiful. A man may, without 
doubt, recommend himself by such kind of informa- 
tion, by that affected interest with which he speaks of 
a thousand trifling concerns of life, by the approba- 
tion which he gives to every passion, the flattery with 
which he soothes every prejudice and encourages eve- 
ry folly ; but he thereby narrows his mind, and destroys 
the faculty of considering* and forming a just estimate 
of any important subject. Besides, the pleasures of 
high life cannot be enjoyed, without the concurrence 
of numbers in the same object, at the same time : but 
reading and meditation may be enjoyed at any time, 
and continued without the intervention of another per- 
son. It is true, indeed, that if a man of the world 
were only to think of this mode of life, he would be 
despised as a misanthrope, and be obliged every mo : 
meat to listen to the recommendation of enuring i 
the round ot public pleasure, to effect his cure. B 
on the contrary, the societies of the world, while th 
add some little refinement to the natural rudeness if 
human manners, tend to increase a misanthropic tem- 
per, by furnishing the mind with a variety of reasons 
to justify it. In short, the burthen of misanthropy is 
not greater in the mind of him who flies from the 
pleasures of the world, than in him who seeks them : 
the first character only feels a hatred of vice and folly ; 
while, on the contrary, the idle and dissipated man 
hates every person, who distinguishes himself, either 
by the goodness of his heart, or the superiority of his 
understanding ; and by his endeavour to deride all 
who possess merit, discovers that he feels no hope of 
acquiring for himself either reputation or esteem. 

The mind that seriously contemplates these truths, 
and many others which these will suggest, must feel 




©N THE MIND AND THE HliAllT. 93 

the necessity of retiring occasionally from the world : 
at least, of confining himself to the company #f a few 
faithful friends, whose wit and talents, v.- hen compared 
with those of the generality of men, will be what a 
stop-watch is, when compared with an hour- 
glass. By the one you may undoubtedly discover 
the course of time ; but the other, from the nice art 
and happy care with which it is formed, points out 
every second as it passes. He, therefore, who feels 
the least inclination to study either men or books, can 
derive pleasure only from the company and conversa- 
tion of learned and enlightened minds : and if unfor- 
tunately, in his course through life, he should not 
meet with agreeable characters of this description, the 
charms of Solitude will recompense his disappoint- 
ment. 

A very great character, the younger Pliny, felt no 
satisfaction from any species of public entertainments, 
general festival, or national solemnity, because he had 
cultivated a taste for those pleasures which, a contem- 
plative mind affords. He wrote to one of his friends, 
*. I have, for some days past, read and written in the 
most agreeable tranquility. You will ask, How this 
i could happen in the middle of Rome ? I will satisfy 
' you : It was during the celebration of the games of 
< the Circus, from the sight of which I do not feel the 
4 smallest pleasure : to my mind, they neither afford 
4 novelty nor variety ; and consist of nothing worth 
seeing more than once. It is, therefore, inconceiv- 
able to me, how so many millions of people, can 
i press, with such childish curiosity, merely to see 
horses gallop, and slaves seated on chariots. When 
I reflect on the interest, anxiety, and avidity, with 
1 which men pursue sights so vain, frivolous, and re- 
iterated, I feel a secret satisfaction in acknowledging, 
that to me they afford no amusement, and that I 
enjoy a superior delight in consecrating to the study 



§4 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

u of the belles-lettres 9 that time which they so mlsera* 
" bly sacrifice to the entertainments of the Circus." 

But if, from similar motives, a man cf the 
world were to steal from the ] 

fiany, would he not by ..arac- 

ter ? Would he not in the ,i c Je forget 

the bon-ton, and, ofcoun qualities, 

which externally constUir: e :he erence between 

the nobleman a»d th : slave ? 

The bov-tgn, which consists entirely in a facility 
of expression, in representing our icle~s in the most 
agreeable maimer, prevails in every country, and is 
possessed in general by all men of sense and educa- 
tion, whatever their rank and condition in life may be. 
The nobleman and the clown, therefore, may alike 
acquire a knowledge of the son-ton. The solitary 
character may, perhaps, appear in society, with man- 
ners rather out of date ; but a certain propriety of be- 
haviour will accompany him, which a man of true 
reflection will prefer, however foreign his style may 
be to the fashion of the world. He may* perhaps, 
venture to appear in company with a coat, the colour 
of which was in fashion the preceding year ; perhapsjl 
in his modes of thinking, and manner of behaviour, 
something may be dfscernibly offensive to the eyes of 
a man of the world, who, upon those important sub* 
jects, follows invariably the reigning opinion of the ' 
day ; but by his easy, open, honest air, by that natu- 
ral politeness which good sense and virtue inspire, a 
man, although he be rather out of the fashion* will 
never displease a rational and refined observer, even 
in the brilliant circles of a court, when he is found to 
possess a decent demeanour, and a mind stored with 
useful information. The most accomplished courtier, 
with all his studied manners and agreeable address, 
frequently discovers that he possesses few ideas, 
that his mind has only been employed on low and tri- 



ON THE MIN© AND THE HEART, f 5 

fling objects. Among men of dissipated minds, who 
consider grossness of conversation and audacity of 
manner, as the only criterion, of good sense and polish- 
ed behaviour, a solitary iru-n does not always meet 
with a favourable reception. The style and senti- 
ments which best please such characters, are impos- 
sible to be learned in Solitude ; for he who most con- 
tributes to the amusement of men of the world, can 
seldom boast any other merit, than that of attempting 
to ridicule every thing that is true, ncb>e, great and 
good ; or any other success, than proving himself to 
be a foolish character, without judgement, principle, 
or good manners. 

IN what I have hitherto considered in this chapter, 
no question has been raided of the internal and imme- 
diate advantages, which Solitude confers upon the 
mind. 

The mind, without doubt, gains considerable ad- 
vantage by having been accustomed to Solitude during 
the earliest years of infancy, if instructed in a judi- 
cious use of time- The circumstance, also, that even 
-in small towns, the mind may be impressed with a 
deep disgust of all those vices and irregularities which 
^are common to such places, is by no means unimpor- 
tant ; for it is highly advantageous, that without 
lessening the respect which is justly due to the talents 
and virtues of men of quality, the mind should b@ 
taught to remark also their foibles and defects, in or- 
der to detach it from its fondness for the world, and 
connect it more closely in connection with itself ; to 
make it feel how dearly its future happiness is interest- 
ed in exciting every faculty to acquire those original, 
great, and useful ideas, which are so seldom circulat- 
ed in what is called good company. 

But the first and most incontestable advantage which 
Solitude confers, is, that it accustoms the mind to 



f G THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

think. The imagination becomes more lively, the 
memory more faithful, while the senses remain tin* 
* distracted, and no external object disgusts the soul. 
Withdrawn from the fatiguing toils of the world, 
where a thousand adventitious objects, a thousand in- 
coherent ideas dance incessantly before our eyes, Soli* 
tude presents one single object only to our view, and 
we steal ourselves away from every thing but that on 
which the heart has fondly fixed its pursuit. 

An author,* whose works I could read with pleas<- 
ure, every hour of my life, says, " It is the power of 
" attention which, in a great measure, distinguishes 
" the wise and the great from the vulgar and trifling 
" herd of men. The latter are accustomed to think, 
" or rather to dream, without knowing the subject of 
" their thoughts. In their unconnected rovings, they 
£ pursue no end ; they follow no track. Every thing 
" floats loose and disjointed on the surface of their 
" minds — like leaves scattered^and blown about on the 
* c face of the waters. 3 ' 

The mind easily acquires the habit of thinking, 
when it is withdrawn from that variety of objects by 
which its attention is distracted ; when it turns from 
the observation of external objects, and finds itself in a 
situation where the course of daily occurrences is no 
longer subject to continual change. Idleness, how- * 
ever, would soon destroy all the advantages which Sol- 
itude is capable of affording us — for idleness excites 
the most dangerous fermentation of the passions, and 
produces, in the mind of a solitary man, a croud of ex- 
travagant ideas and irregular desires. To lead the 

* Dr. Blair, the author of the much admired Sermons^ 
and of an excellent vjork entitled u Lectures on Rhetoric 
and Belles Lettres" firinted in London, for the Jirst 
time, in the year 1783 ; and indispensably necessary to he 
studied by every person who wishes to speak and write- 
%vith accuracy and elegance* 



©S THE KIND AND TK2 HEART. 97 

mind to think, it is necessary, therefore, to retire from 
the multitude, and 10 raise our thoughts above the 
mean consideration of sensual objects. The mind, 
then, easily recollects all that information with which 
it has been enriched by reading, observation, experi- 
ence or discourse : every reflection produces new ideas 
and brings the purest pleasures to the soul. We cast 
our eyes on the scenes we have passed, and think on 
what is yet to come, until the memory of the past and 
future die away in the actual enjoyment of the present 
moment : but to preserve the powers of reason, wc 
must, even in Solitude, direct our attention actively 
towards some noble, indirect end. 

It might, perhaps, excite a smile, were I to assert, 
that Solitude is the only school in which we can study 
the characters of men ; but it must be recollected, 
that, although materials are only to be amassed in so- 
ciety, it is in Solitude alone we can convert them into 
use. The world is the great scene of our observa- 
tions ; but to comment on and arrange them with pro- 
priety, is the work of Solitude. Under this view of 
the subject, therefore, I do not perceive how it is pos- 
sible, to call those characters envious and misanthropic^ 
who, while they continue m the world, endeavour to 
discover even the hidden foibles, to expose all the la- 
tent faults and imperfections of mankind. A knowl- 
edge of the nature of man is laudable and necessary ; 
and this knowledge can only be acquired by observa- 
tion. I cannot, therefore, think, that this study is 
either so dangerous or illusory, as is in general suppo- 
sed ; that it tends to degrade the species, to sink the 
human character by opprobrium, to beget sooner or 
later, sorrow and repentance, to deprive life of a vari- 
ety of pure and noble pleasures, and in the end, t© 
destroy all the faculties of the soul. I only perceive 
& very laudable spirit of useful enquiry and instructive 
observation. 

I 



58 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDB 

Do I feel either envy or hatred against mankind, 
when I study the nature^ and explore the secret causes 
of those weaknesses and disorders which are incident- 
al to the human frame ; when I occasionally examine 
the subject with closer inspection, and point out, for 
the general benefit; of mankind as well as for my own 
satisfaction, all the frail and imperfect parts in the 
anatomy of the body, and rejoice when I discover phec- 
nomena before unknown to others as well as myself? 
I do not, upon these occasions, confine my knowl- 
edge to general observations, that such and such 
appearances were produced by such and such elisor-* 
tiers ; but, uninfluenced by any sinister considerations, 
I disclose, when the necessity of the case calls for 
inform;."' on, all the knowledge I possess on the sub? 
ject, and explain every symptom of the disorder, with 
ail its changes and complications. 

But a line of demarkation is drawn between the ob- 
servations which we are permitted to make upon the 
anatomy of the human body, and those which we as=^ 
sume respecting the philosophy of the mind. The 
physician, it is said, studies the disorders of the body, 
to apply, if possible, a remedy, as occasion may re- 
quire ; but it is contended, that the moralist has a 
different end in view. How does this appear ? A sen- 
sible and feeling mind must view the moral defect of 
his fellow-creatures with the same regret that he ol> 
serves their physical infirmities. Why do moralists 
shun mankind ? Why do they constantly retire from 
the corruptions of the world to the purity of Solitude, 
if it be not to avoid the contagion of vice ? But there 
are a multiplicity of moral foibles and defects, which 
are not perceived to be foibles or defects in those places 
where they are every hour indulged. There is, with- 
out contradiction, a great pleasure in discovering the 
imperfections of human nature ; and where that dis- 
covery may prove beneficial to mankind, without 



ON THE MIND ANB THE HEART. 99 

doing an injury to any individual, to publish them to 
the world, to point out their properties, to place them 
by a luminous description before the eyes of men, is, 
in my apprehension, a pleasure so for from being mis- 
chievous, that I rather think, and I trust I shall con- 
tinue to think so even to the hour of death, it is the 
only true mean of discovering the machinations of the 
devil ; and destroying the effect of his works. 

Solitude, therefore, is the school in which we must 
study the moral nature of man ; in retirement, the 
principle of observation is awakened ; the objects to 
which the attention will be most advantageously di- 
rected, are pointed ©tit by mature reflection, and all 
our remarks guided by reason to their proper ends ; 
while, on the contrary, courtiers, and men of the 
world, take up their sentiments from the caprices of 
others, and give their opinions, without digesting the 
subject on which they are formed. 

Bonnet, in a very affecting passage of the Preface 
to his work on the nature of the soul, describes the 
advantages, which, under the loss of sight, he derived 
from Solitude. " Solitude naturally leads the mind 
« to meditation : that in which I have in some meas- 
" ure hitherto lived, joined to the unfortunate circum- 
" stances which have for some years afflicted me, and 
" from which I am not yet released, induced me to seek 
" in the exercise of my mind, those resources which. 
" my distracted state rendered so necessary. My 

* mind now affords me a happy retreat, where I taste 

* all the pleasures which have charmed my afflic- 
" tion." At this period, the virtuous Bonnet was 
almost blind. 

An excellent man, of another description, who de- 
Voted his time to the instruction of youth, Pfeffel, 
at Colmar, supported himself under the affliction of a 
total blindness, in a manner equally noble and affect- 
ing, by a life less solitary indeed, but by the opportu> 



10© THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

nities of frequent liesure, which he devoted to the stu- 
dy of philosophy, the recreation of poetry, and the 
exercise of humanity. 

In Japan, there was formerly an academy of blind 
persons, who, perhaps, were much more capable of 
discernment than the members of some other acade- 
mies. These sightless academicians consecrated their 
hours to the history of their country, to poetry, and 
to music ; and the most celebrated traits in the annals 
of Japan, were chosen as the subjects of their muse, 
which they afterwards adapted to music. In reflect- 
ing upon the irregular lives, and useless employments, 
which a great number cf solitary persons lead, we 
contemplate the conduct of these blind Japanese with 
the highest plesaure. The " mind's eye" opened to 
compensate their unhappy fate, in being deprived of 
the enjoyments of their corporeal organ. Light, life, 
and joy issued from the shades of surrounding dark- 
ness, and blessed them with tranquil reflection and 
salutary employments. 

Let us then devote our lives to Solitude and free- 
dom ; let us frequently resign ourselves to the same 
happy tranquility which prevails in the English garden 
of my immortal friend M. Hinuber, at Marienwer- 
der, where every object solicits the mind to the enjoy- 
ment of pious, peaceful sentiment, and inspires it 
with the most elevated conceptions ; or, if disposed 
profoundly to examine the most awful beauties of 
nature, and thereby prevent the soul from sinking, 
through the void which society has occasioned, let us 
roam beneath the antique piles of the towering and 
majestic X-Iapsburgh** 

Solitude induces the mind to think ; and thought is 
the first spring of human actions : for it is truly ob- 

* An elevated Mountain, from the summit of which 
.may be seen, the rums of an antient castle^ from whence 
issued the celebrated House of Austria*. 



fX THE MIND AND THE HEART. 101 

tef-Ved, that the actions of men are nothing more than 
tk#ir thoughts brought into substance and being. The 
mind, therefore, has only to examine, with honest im- 
partiality, the idea's which it feels the greatest inclina- 
tion to follow, in order to dive into and unravel, the 
whole mystery of the human character ; and he who 
has not before been accustomed to interrogate himself, 
will,- upon such an enquiry, often discover truths the 
most important to his happiness, but which the dis- 
guises of the world had concealed from his view. 

To a man disposed to activity, the only qualities for 
which he can have any occasion in Solitude, are li- 
berty and liesure. The instant he finds himself 
alone, ail the faculties of his soul are set in motion. 
Give him liberty and leisure, and he will soar incom- 
parably higher than if he had continued to drag on a 
slavish and oppressed life among the sons of men. 
Authors who never think for themselves, who only 
endeavour to recollect the thoughts of others, and aim 
not at originality, here compile their works with easy - 
labour, and are happy. But what superior pleasure 
does the mind of an author feel, in the advantages of 
Solitude, where they contribute to bring forth the fruits 
of genius from the tree of virtue, notwithstanding such 
productions may, perhaps, irritate fools, and confound 
the wicked i The shades of Solitude, and an uninter- 
rupted tranquility, moderate the exuberance of a lively 
mind, bring its diverging rays of thought to a single 
point, and give it, wherever it is inclined to strike, a 
power which nothing can resist. A whole legion of 
adversaries cannot inspire the bosom of such a charac- 
ter with the smallest fear ; he is conscious of his 
superior powers, and his sole desire is, that, sooner 
or later, each of them should receive the justice that 
is due. He must undoubtedly feel the keenest regret 
and mortification in observing the dispensations of the 
world j where vice so frequently is raised to grandeur, 
I 2 



102 YHI INFLUENCE 07 SOLITUDE 

hypocrisy so generally honoured by the suffrages of a 
misguided populace, and where the dictates of power- 
ful prejudice are obeyed in preference to the voice of 
truth. Casting, however, his eyes upon this scene, he 
will sometimes say* u This is as it ought to be ;" but 
" this is not to be endured :" and by a happy stroke of 
satire from his pen, the bloom of vice shall wither, 
the arts of hypocrisy be overthrown, and prejudice 
extinguished. 

To the eye of the bold satyrist, to the mind of the 
profound philosopher, and the feelings of the man 
of genius, the charms of truth disclose themselves 
with superior lustre, in the bowers of Solitude. A 
great and good man, Dr. Blair, of Edinburgh, says, 
u The great and the worthy, the pious and the virtu- 
" ous, have ever been addicted to serious retirement. 
" It is the characteristic of little and frivolous minds, 
Ci to be wholly occupied with the vulgar objects of 
u life. These fill up their desires, and supply all the 
" entertainments which their coarse apprehensions can 
" relish. But a more refined and enlarged mind 
" leaves the world behind it, feels a call for higher 
" pleasures, and seeks them in retreat. The man of 
" public spirit has recourse to it, in order to form 
" plans for general good ; the man of genius, in order 
" to dwell on his favourite themes ; the philosopher, 
" to pursue his discoveries ; the saint, to improve 
" himself in grace.*' 

Numa, the legislator of Rome, while he was only 
a private Sabine, retired, on the death of Tatia, his 
beloved wife, into the forest of Aricia^ where he passed 
his time in wandering about alone, in the sacred groves 
and lawns, in the most retired and solitary places. 
Hence a report arose, that it was not from any inward 
sorrow or melancholy disposition, that he avoided hu- 
man conversation, but from his being admitted, in 
these retreats, to a society more venerable and excel* 



Ott THE MIND AND THE HEART. 103 

lent : the goddess Egeria ! it was said, had become 
enamoured of his ch-j/ms, had married him, and, by 
enlightening his n .ad, -and storing it with superior 
wisdotfi, had led him to divine felicity. The Druids, 
also, who constantly inhabited caverns, rocks, and the 
most solitary woods, are said to have instructed the 
nobility of their nation in wisdom and eloquence, in all 
the various phenomena of nature, the course of the 
stars, the mysteries of religion, and the essences of eter- 
nity. The high idea entertained of the wisdom of the 
Druids, although, like the story of Numa, it is only an 
agreeable fiction, still shews with what enthusiasm every 
age and nation have spoken of those venerable charac- 
ters, who, in the silence of woods, and the tranquility of 
Solitude, have devoted their time to the study of wisdom. 
It is in Solitude alone that genius is excited by its 
own internal powers, unsupported by the great, 
without the expectation of encouragement, without 
even a prospect of the most trifling recompence, 
Corregio, at a time when Flanders, torn by civil 
discord, was filled with painters, as indigent in wealth, 
as they were rich in fame, had been so poorly reward- 
ed during his life, that a payment of six pistoles of 
German coin, which he was obliged to travel to Par- 
ma to receive, created in his mind such an extrava- 
gance of joy, as to prove the occasion of his death.* 
The secret approbation which judgement will ever pay 
to the works of these divine artists, is the only recom- 
pence they expect for their merit; they paint in hope 
of being rewarded by immortal fame. 

, * The fiayment was made in quadrina, a sfiecies of 
cofifier coin. The joy which the mind of Corregio felt, in 
being the bearer of so large a quantity of money to his 
wife, fir evented him from thinking, either of the length of 
his journey, or the excessive heat of the day. He walk' 
ed twelve miles ; and his haste to reach home^ brought on 
the pleurisy , of which he died. 



W4 THE INFLUENCE, OF SOLITUDE 

The practice of profound meditation, in solitary 
places, frequently raises the mind above its natural 
tone, warms the imagination, and gives birth to sen- 
timents of the highest sublimity. The soul feeis the 
most pure, unbroken, permanent and genial pleasures, 
of which it is, capable. In Solitude, to live and to 
think are synonymous ; on every emotion, the mind 
darts into infinity ; and, wrapt in enthusiasm, is con- 
firmed in this freedom of enjoyment., in the habitude 
of thinking on sublime subjects, and of adopting the 
most heroic pursuits. In a deep Solitude, at the foot 
of a high mountain near Pyiimont, one of the most 
remarkable atchievements of the present age was first 
conceived. The King of Prussia, having visited the 
Spa at Pyrmont, to drink the waters, withdrew from 
the company who frequented the place, and wander- 
ed alone upon this beautiful mountain, which was then 
uncultivated, and which, to this day, is called the 
Royal Mountain.* It was on this desert, since be- 
come the seat of coquetry and dissipation, that the 
young monarch, as it is confidently reported, formed 
his project of the first war against Silesia. 

The inestimable value of time, of which the indo- 
lent, having no conception, can form no estimate, is 
much better learned in the regularity of Solitude, than 
in the light and airy rounds of life. He who employs 
himself with ardour, and is unwilling to live entirely 
in vain, contemplates with trembling apprehension, 
the rapid movement of a stop-watch ; the true image 
of human life, the most striking emblem of the rapid 
course of time. 

The time which we employ in social intercourse, 
when it improves the faculties of the mind, raises the 
feelings of the heart to a certain degree of elevation, 
extends the sphere of knowledge, and banishes our 

* Konigsburgh. 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 105 

cares, is far from being mis-spent. But if an inter- 
eourse even thus happily formed, become our sole 
delight, and change into the passion of love ; if it 
transform hours into minutes, and exclude from the 
mind every idea except those which the object of af- 
fection inspires, even love itself, alas ! will absorb 
our time, and ysars will pass unperceived away. 

Time is never too long ; on the contrary, it appears 
too short to him who, to the extent of his capacity, 
employs it usefully, in the discharge of the respective 
duties which his particular situation calls upon him to 
perform. To such a disposition, time, instead of be- 
ing burthensome, flies too hastily awayr I am ac- 
quainted with a young prince, who, by the assistance 
of six domestics, does not employ more than two 
minutes in dressing. Of his carriage, it would be in- 
correct to say that he goes in it, for he flies. At his 
hospitable table, every course is finished in a moment ; 
and I am informed, that this is the usual fashion of 
princes ; who seem disposed to make every thing pass 
with rapidity. I have, however, seen the royal youth 
to whom I allude, exercise the most brilliant talents, 
support the highest style of character, attend in his 
own person to every application, and I know that he 
has afforded satisfaction and delight in every interview. 
I know that the affairs of his domestic establishment 
engage his most scrupulous attention six hours every 
day ; and that in every day of the year he employs, 
without exception, seven hours in reading the best 
English, Italian, French, and German authors. This 
prince knows the value of time. 

The time which the man of the world throws away 
is treasured up by. the man of Solitude, and indeed by 
every one who wishes to make his existence useful to 
himself or beneficial to mankind ; and certainly there 
is not in this world any species of enjoyment more 
permanent. Men have many duties to perform; and, 



106 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

therefore, he who wishes to discharge them honoura- 
bly, will vigilantly seize the earliest opportunity, if he 
does not wish that any part of his time, like a useless 
page, should be torn from the book of life. We stop 
the course of time by employment ; we prolong the 
duration of life by thought, by wise counsel, and use- 
ful actions. Existence, to him who wishes not to live 
in vain, is io think, and to act. Our ideas never flow 
more rapidly, more copiously, or with more gaiety, 
than in those moments which we save from an unplea- 
sant and fashionable visit. 

We shall always employ time with more rigid 
ceeonomy, when we reflect on the many hours which 
escape contrary to our inclination. A celebrated En- 
glish author says, " When we have deducted all that 
" is absorbed in sleep, all that is inevitably appropriat- 
" ed to the demands of nature, or irresistably engross- 
" ed by the tyranny of custom ; all that passes in re- 
" gulating the superficial decorations of life, or is 
" given up in the reciprocations of civility to the dis- 
" posal of others ; all that is torn from us by the vio- 
" lence of disease, or stole imperceptibly away by 
" lassitude and langour ; we shall find that part of our 
" duration very small of which we can truly call our- 
" selves masters, or which we can spend wholly at 
" our own choice. Many of our hours are lost, in a 
" rotation of petty cares, in a constant recurrence of 
H the same employments ; many of our provisions 
" for ease or happiness are always exhausted by tfre 
c< present day : and a great part of our existence 
" serves no other purpose than that of enabling us to 
" enjoy the rest." 

Time is never more mis-spent than while we vent 
complaints against the want of it. All our actions are 
then tinctured by peevishness. The yoke of life most 
certainly feels less oppressive when we carry it with 
good humour. But when the imperious voice of 



ON THE MIND AND TEE HEART. 107 

Fashion commands, we must, without a murmur, 
boldly resist her bondage, and learn to reduce the 
number of ceremonious visits which employ the week. 
The accomplishment of this victory, a door well 
baited against tho. ; frequent visitors whose talk conveys 
no meaning to our minds, our mornings passed in 
rational employments, and the evening kept sacred to 
the severest scrutiny into pur daily conduct, will at 
least double the time we have to live. Melancthon, 
when any visitor was announced, noted down not only 
the hour, but the \t'cy minute of his arrival and 
departure, in order that the clay might not slip un- 
heeded! y away. 

The sorrowful lamentations on the subject of time 
mis-spent and business neglected, no longer recur to 
torture the mind, when under the freedom of a retired 
and rural life, we have once learnt to use the passing 
hours with economy. We have, then, no more fa? 
tiguing visits to make ; we are no longer forced, in 
spite of our aversion, to accept of invitations ; we are 
no longer mortified by the affluence of rival strangers : 
we are released from those innumerable duties which 
the manners of the world exact, and which, altogeth? 
er, are not equal to a single virtue ; importunate 
visitors cannot then, call, and steal away those hours, 
which we hope to employ more usefully. 

But it has also been observed, with great truth, 
that very few of the hours which we pass in Solitude, 
are distinguished by any useful or permanent effect ; 
tlvat many of them pass lightly away in dreams and 
chimeras, or are employed in discontented unquiet 
reflections, on the indulgence of dangerous passions, 
or of irregular and criminal desires. 

To retire into Solitude, is not always a proof that 
the mind is devoted to serious thought, or that it has 
relinquished the amusement of low and trifling pur- 
suits. Solitude, indeed, may prove more dangerous 



108 TIJE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

than all the dissipations of the wqrld. Hew frequent? 
Iy, in a moment of the happiest liesure, does indispo? 
sition render the mind incapable of study, or of em- 
ploying its powers to any useful end ! The most sor- 
rowful condition of Solitude is that of the hypochon- 
driac, whose mind is only occupied by reflecting on 
his pains. The most dissipated man does not more 
mis-spend his time in pursuing the fleeting pleasures 
of the world, than a melancholy pining mind, even 
when at the greatest distance, and under the most ab- 
solute separation from the rest of mankind. Peevish- 
ness and ill -humour occasion as great loss of time as 
melancholy, and are certainly the greatest obstacles to 
the attainment of mental felicity. Melancholy is an 
enemy whose hostilities alarm our fears, and we there- 
fore endeavor to resist its attack;. but peevishness and 
ill-humour take us by surprize, and we become the 
victims of their power, even before we think ourselves 
in danger. 

Let us, however, only reflect, that by peevishness 
and ill-humour, we not only lose a single day, but 
weeks and months together, and we shall endeavour 
to escape from their influence, or, at least, to prevent 
their access. One unpleasant thought, if we useless- 
ly suffer it to disquiet and torment our minds, will 
deprive us, for a length of time, of the capacity to 
perform any thing beyond the circle of our daily oc- 
cupations. We should, therefore, most anxiously 
endeavour to prevent any of the untoward accidents of 
life from gaining too great an influence over the acti- 
vity of our minds. While the attention is employed, 
the remembrance of sorrow dies away. Thus, while 
the mind is engaged in literary composition, if the 
ideas flow with activity and success, peevishness and 
ill-humour disappear in a moment ; and we frequently 
observe the pen taken up with the frown of discontent, 
~anxl quitted with the smile of happiness and face of joy. 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. lOf 

Life would afford abundant leisure amidst the great- 
est multiplicity of affairs, did we not only suffer time 
to pass uselessly away, but even waste it of our own 
accord. He who, in his earliest youth, has learned the 
jut of devoting every hour to the attainment of some 
useful end, has already made considerable advances ; 
and is qualified to manage very extensive concerns.— 
Put, whether it proceeds from ill humour or want of 
activity, we are always inclined, before we undertake 
the task we intend to perform, to indulge our ease, to 
make conditions, to persuade ourselves that it is not 
yet proper time to commence the work. Indolence 
must ever be caressed, before it can be induced to act* 
Let our first care, therefore, be to fix our minds, inva- 
riably upon some object ; and to pursue it in such a 
manner as to place attainment beyond the reach of ac- 
cident. Firmness and decision, as well as good nature 
and flexibility, must be joined, to form the character 
of a man of business, Surely no man ever knew bet- 
ter how to employ life, than that monarch of whom it 
was said, u He is, like marble, equally firm and pol- 
ished." 

The pursuit of some particular object is the best 
preventive against the loss of time, and a sort of coun- 
ter-poison to the languors of life. Every man, from 
the monarch on the throne to the labourer in the cot- 
tage, should have a daily task : and that which it is 
his daily duty to perform, should be done without pro- 
crastination or delay. Every thought and every action, 
of man, therefore, ought to be directed towards the le- 
gend where it is written " It is to. do this that you aite 
placed here," 

The great monarch, who is an example to the aga 
in which he lives, and whose conduct will heroine a 
model to future, kings, rises every morning, in sum- 
mer, at four o'clock, and in winter at five. The peti- 
tions of his subjects, the dispatches froca focetgi} pow<* 

K 



110 THE, INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

ers, the publick documents of the state, which were 
presented the preceding evening or have arrived du- 
ring the night, are placed before him, on a table. He 
opens and peruses the contents of every paper ; and 
then distributes them into three heaps. One, which 
requires dispatch* he answers immediately ; the oth- 
er he prepares, by remarks written in the margin, 
with his own hand, for the ministers and other officers 
of the crown ; the third, which contains neither amuse- 
ment nor business, he throws into the fire. The sec- 
retaries of state, who attend in readiness, afterwards 
enter to receive his majesty's commands ; and thebu* 
siness of the day is delivered, by the monarch, into the 
hands o'i his servants, to be performed without delay. 
He then mounts his horse, to review his troops ; and 
receives, in the field, those foreigners who are desirous 
of being introduced to him. This scene is succeeded 
by the hospitality of his table, to which he sits down 
with gaiety and presence of mind, and enlivens the 
conversation with sentiments and apothegms which 
strike the mind by their truth and wisdom. The sec» 
retaries re-enter when the repast is finished, bringing 
with them, properly and neatly prepared for the royal 
approbation, those documents of which they had re- 
ceived the rough draughts in the morning. Between 
the hours of four and five in the afternoon, the daily 
business of the nation being concluded, the monarch 
thinks himself at liberty to repose ; and this indui-? 
gence consists in reading to himself, or having read to 
him, the best compositions, ancient or modern, until 
the hour of supper arrives. A sovereign who thus 
employs his hours, may fairly expect that the time of 
his ministers, his generals, his officers of state, shall 
not be mis-spent. 

Many men will never exert themselves except in 
matters of high importance ; never employ their tal- 
ent's but upon great objects \ and because they lose 



f)N THE MIND AND THE HEART. 1 I 1 

this opportunity, will do nothing. Others do nothing, 
because they do not know how to distribute their time. 
They might be able to perform some great and useful 
action, if they would only seize all the idle half-hours, 
and employ them to the attainment of any end they 
might propose ; for there are many important events 
which can be produced only by slow degrees. But 
those who are not only subject to, but are pleased with 
and solicit continual interruption ; who wait for the re- 
turn of good-humour, and remain idle until they fjel 
an inclination to be industrious, which can only be ac- 
quired by habit ; who look, prospectively, for that 
season of complete leisure which no man ever finds — 
will soon fallaciously conclude, that they have neither 
opportunity nor power to exert their talents ; and to 
kill that time which adds a burthen to their lives, will 
saunter about, and ride from place to place, morning, 
noon and night* 

One of the greatest and most worthy men that ever 
adorned Swisserland, my deceased friend Iselin, 
composed his Ephemerides during the debates in the 
Senate of Basil* ; a work which all the nobility of 
Germany ought to study, and many of them have read. 
Our own celebrated Maeser, who now resides at Os- 
naburg, is equally honoured and beloved by his king, 
the prince, and all our ministers, as a man of business 
and a true patriot, and'in Osaaburg by the nobility, 
clergy, citizens and peasants, raised himself, by the 
easy exercise of sportive fancy, to a pinnacle of fame 

* Mr. I elin was a Register : while he was comfiosing 
his Ephemerides, the Senators of Basil conceived he 
was registering their debates — in the same manner as the 
Counsellors <f Zurich thought that the immortal Gk.ss- 
NER was collecting their proceedings upon his tablets^ 
while he was in fact taking the portraits of those wor- 
thies in caricature* 



Ill THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

•which lew German venters have ever been able In 
reach, t 

" Carfie diem" says Horace ; and this recommen- 
dation will extend, with equal propriety, to every hour 
of our lives. The voluptuous, of every description, 
the votaries of Bacchus and the sons of Anacreon, ex- 
hort us to drive away corroding care, to promote in- 
cessant gaiety, to enjoy the fleeting moments as they 
pass ; and there is sound reason in these precepts-— 
tho' not in the sense in which they understand them. 
To enjoy the present moments, they must not be con- 
sumed in drinking and debauchery ; but employed m 
advancing sceatlijy towards that end we have proposed 
to attain. We may be solitary, even amidst the joys 
of publick life. Morning visits may be paid at noon ; 
cards of ceremony may be circulated through half the 
town ; personal appearances may be recorded in every 
fashionable assembly ; and the morning and the even- 
ing still kept sacred to ourselves. It is only necessa- 
sary to adopt some regular plan of life, to encourage a 
fondness for home, and an -inclination to continue the 
pursuit of our design. It is the man of labour and ap- 
plication, alone, who has, during the day, afforded be- 
nefit to his neighbour or service to the state ; that can, 
in conscience, fix himself, a whole night, at the gam- 
ing table, without hearing or saying one interesting 
word, and without, on his return home, being able to 
recollect any other expression than " I have won or 
lost so much money." 

The highest advantage which we derive from time, 
and the sole end to which I would direct these reflec- 
tions, Petrarch has already taught us. " If,* says 

t M. Maksfr dictated to his daughter y during the ex- 
hibitiom of the tl eatre, almost the whole of his fugitive 
fiiecesi tvhich have so justly given immortality to his 
fame. ' 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 113 

Petrarch, " you feel any inclination to serve Go J, 
K in which consist the highest felicities of our nature ; 
" if you are disposed to elevate the mind by the study 
" of letters, which, next to religion, procures us the 
" truest pleasures ; if, by your sentiments and wri- 
" tings, you are anxious to leave behind you something 
" that will memorise your names with posterity-— 
" stop the rapid progress ol your days, and prolong 
a the course of this most uncertain life ; if you feel 
" the least inclination to acquire these advantages, 
" fly, ah ! fly, I beseech you, from the enjoyments of 
" the world, and pass the few remaining days you have 
" to live in Solitude. " 

It is not in the power of every man to follow this 
advice ; but there are many who are, in a greater or 
less degree, masters of their time, and who may, as 
their inclinations lead them, either preserve or relin- 
quish their connections with the world. It is, there- 
fore, for the benefit of such characters, that I shall 
continue to consider the advantages which Solitude af- 
fords. 

Solitude inspires the mind with exquisite taste, ex- 
tends the boundaries of thought, enlarges the sphere 
of action, and dispenses a superior kind of pleasure, 
which neither time nor accident can remove. 

Taste is refined, in Solitude, by a more careful se- 
lection of those beauties which become the subjects of 
our contemplation. It depends entirely upon ourselves 
to make choice of those objects from which we may 
derive the purest pleasure ; to read those writings, to 
encourage those reflections which most tend to pu- 
rify the mind, and store it with the richest variety of 
images. Reposing with security upon the established 
wisdom 6f others, rather than upon our own judge- 
ment, the mind escapes the contagion of those false 
notions which are so easily adopted by the world. — 
To be obliged, continually, to tell orieVself, « This is 
K 2 



114 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

the sentiment which you must entertain," is insupport- 
bb. Why, alas ! will not men strive, by free choice 
and reflection, according to the nature of the subject, 
to gain opinions of their own, rather than submit to 
be guided by the arbitrary dictates of others ? Of 
what importance is it to me, that the beau-monde ap- 
proves of a writing that pleases me ? In what do you 
instruct me, ye cold and miserable critics ? Does your 
judgement make me feel that which is truly fine, no- 
ble, good and excellent, with higher relish ? How can 
I submit to the decision of that partial tribunal which 
decides upon the merit of works by arbitrary agree- 
ments, examines all irregularly, and generally deter- 
mines wrong ? What opinion must I entertain of 
the multitude, who only repeat what you direct them 
to say, and who speak your sentiments through the 
channel of the publick ? What reliance can be placed 
in the rectitude of your judgements, when, in review- 
ing the most detestable publications, you can pro- 
nounce that the whole is excellent, because a certain 
person, of literary renown, upon whose word you 
a-ould condemn the chastest work, has thought proper 
to praise it ? 

It is impossible ever to discover or see the enchant- 
hg beauties of truth, unless we entirely relinquish the 
jiciety of this class of readers ; for they infect the 
Judgement before we suspect them. But enlightened 
hinds, whose correct taste immediately distinguishes 
>eauties from defects ; who become enthusiastic and 
impassioned admirers of all that is excellent, while 
fiey feel a natural disgust at that which is bad ; who 
\ ljoy the works of true genius, and suffer the severest 
iain from dullness, absurdity and bombast — willingly 
etire from the crowd, and alone, or with a few cho- 
jen friends, resign themselves to the pleasures of a 
tanquil intercourse with ail that antiquity or modern 
^ges have produced of distinguished excellence. 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 115 

It is then we learn how much we are capable of con- 
tributing to the perfection and happiness of our na- 
ture, and experience the most agreeable sensations of 
our existence ; it is then that we congratulate our- 
selves on the possession of our mental powers in the 
subjects on which they are employed ; it is then we 
feel, that with such characters we exert our faculties 
to the advantage of ourselves, to the pleasure of our 
friends, and perhaps, also, at some future period, to the 
happiness of sympathetic minds, to whom we are yet 
unknown, and to whom, indeed, the pen of truth can 
never be displeasing. 

Solitude gives new vigour to activity of the mind, 
multiplies the number of its ideas, and extends its 
sources of information, by rendering our curiosity 
more lively, our application more indefatigable, our 
perseverance more firm. 

A man who was well acquainted with all these ad- 
vantages, has said, that " by silent, solitary reflection, 
u we exercise and strengthen all the powers of the 
" mind ; the many obscurities which render it diffi- 
u cult to pursue our path, disperse and retire ; and 
¥ we return to a busy, social life, with more cheerful- 

* ness and content. The sphere of our understand- 
' ing becomes enlarged by reflection ; w T e have learn- 
ed to survey more objects, and to bind them, intel- 
lectually, together ; we carry a clearer sight, a just- 
It er judgement, and firmer principles, with us, into 

the world in which we are to live and act ; and are 

• then more able, even in the midst of all '\z distrac- 
; tions, to preserve our attention, to think with accu- 
' racy, to determine with judgement, in a degree 

proportioned to the preparations we have made in 
j the hour of retireme ." 
The curiosity of a rational mind is, in the ordinary 

transactions of the world, very soon satisfied ; but in 
olitude it augments daily. The human mind, in its 



IIS THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

researches after truth, cannot immediately discover 
the end it wishes to attain : it links proof to observa- 
tion, joins experience to conclusion, and by one truth 
developes another. The astronomers who first obserr 
ved the course of the planets, did not foresee the ex- 
tensive influence which their discoveries would one 
day produce upon the happiness and interests of man- 
kind. Delighted to view the state of the firmament 
during the progress of the night, and perceiving that 
the stars changed their situations, their curiosity in- 
duced them to explore the causes of that which excited 
their admiration, and determined them to pursue the 
road of science. It is thus, by silent activity, that the 
soul augments it powers ; and a contemplative mind 
will always gain advantage in proportion as it reflects 
upon the immediate causes, the effects, and the possi- 
ble consequences, of an established truth. 

. The mind, when the imagination is regulated by the 
level of reason, proceeds with much less rapidity ; but 
it never takes the same steps afterwards that it did 
before. Men who permit themselves to be drawn aside 
by the charms of fancy, construct worlds, which im- 
mediately burst like airy bubbles of soap and water ; 
while rational minds examine the materials of their 
projected fabric, and use those only which are good. 
" The great art to learn much," says Locke, " is ta 
undertake a little at a time." 

Dr. Johnson, the celebrated English writer, has 
very happily said, " All the performances of human 
" art, at which we look with praise or wonder, are 
'* instances of the resistless force of perseverance ; it 
" it by this, that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and 
" that distant countries are united by canals. If a 
M man was to compare the effect of a single stroke of 
" the pick-axe, or of one impression of a spade, with 
<c the general design and last result, he would be over- 
* whelmed by the sense of their disproportion j yet 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 117 

" those petty operations, incessantly continued, in time 
" surmount the greatest difficulties ; and mountains 
K are levelled, and oceans bounded, by the slender 
" force of human beings. It is therefore of the ut- 
" most importance that those who have any intention 
" of deviating from the beaten roads of life, and ac- 
" quiring a reputation superior to names hourly swept 
" away by time among the refuse of fame, should add 
" to their reason, and their spirit, the power of per- 
" sisting in their purposes ; acquire the habit of van- 
" quishmg obstinate resistance by obstinate attacks." 

Activity animates the most savage desart, converts 
the dreary cell into a lively world, gives immortal glo- 
ry to the genius who meditates in the silence of retire- 
ment, and crowns the ingenious artist who produces 
his chef-d'auvres from a solitary work-shop with un- 
fading fame. The mind, in proportion to the difficul- 
ties it meets with, and the resistance it has to sur- 
mount, exercises its powers with higher pleasure, and 
raises its efforts with greater zeal, to attain success.— . 
Apelles being reproached with the small, number of 
pictures he had painted, and the incessant attention 
with which he re-touched his works, contented him- 
self with making this reply : " I paint for posterity ." 

To recommend monastic notions of Solitude, and 
the sterile tranquility of the cloister, to men who, after 
a serious preparation in retirement, and an assiduous 
intercourse with their own minds, are capable of per- 
forming great and good actions in the world, would be 
extravagant and absurd. Princes cannot live the life 
of monks ; ministers of state are no longer sought in 
the silence of the convent ; generals are no longer 
chosen from the members of the church. Petrarch 
therefore aptly says, " I condemn the Solitude which 
" encourages sloth, and the leisure which is idly and 
" unprofitably employed : Solitude must be rendered 
* useful to many purposes of life. A man who is in- 



118 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

*< dolent, slothful, and detached from the world, must 
• inevitably become melancholy and miserable. Such 
" a character can never do any good ; he cannot resign 
" himself to any useful science, or pursue any object 
" worthy the attention of a great man." 

He may, however, procure to himself the pleasures 
of the mind ; those precious pleasures, so easily ac- 
quired, so open to the access of all mankind : for it is 
only in those pleasures which are sold for money, 
wherein the mind has no participation, and which only 
tend to afford a momentary relief to langour, or to 
drown the senses in forgetfulness, that the great 
claim an exclusive right ; but in those delights which 
the mind is capable of procuring for its peculiar en- 
joyment, they have no privilege ; delights, which are 
reared by our own industry, by serious reflection, pro- 
found thought, deep research, and which produce the 
more hidden fruits of knowledge, the love of truth, and 
a contemplation of the perfection of our moral and 
physical nature. 

A preacher from Swisserland, has, in a German 
pulpit, said, " The streams of mental pleasures, those 
" which, of course, all men of whatever condition may 
" equally partake, flow from one to the other : the 
" stream of which we have most frequently tasted, lo- 
" ses neither its flavour nor its virtue, hut frequently 
c * acquires new charms, and conveys additional plea- 
4i sure the oftener it is tasted. The subjects of these 
" pleasures are as unbounded as the reign of truth, as 
" extensive as the world, as unlimited as the divine 
" perfection. The incorporeal pleasures, therefore, 
u are much more durable than all others. They 
" neither disappear with the light of the day, nor 
li change with the external forms of things, nor de- 
M seen J with our bodies to the tomb ; but continue 
W while we exist : accompany us under all the vicissi- 
w tildes, not only of our mortal life, but of that which 



©N THE MIND AND THE HEART. 119 

? is to come ; secure us in the darkness of the night ; 
" and compensate for all the miseries we are doomed 
" to suffer." 

Men of exalted minds therefore have always, amidst 
the bustle of the gay world, and even in the brilliant 
career of heroism, preserved a taste for mental plea* 
sures. Engaged in affairs of the most important con- 
sequence, notwithstanding the variety of objects by 
which their attention was distracted, they were still 
faithful to the muses, and fondly devoted their minds 
to the perusal of the works of genius. They gave no 
credit to the idea, that reading and knowledge are use- 
less to great men ; and frequently condescended, 
without a blush, to become writers themselves. When 
Philip, king of Macedon^ invited Dtonvsius the Youn* 
ger to dine with him at Corinth, he felt an inclination 
to deride the father of his royal guest, because he had 
blended the characters of sovereign and poet, and had 
employed his leisure in writing odes and tragedies. — * 
" How could the king find leisure," said Philip, « to 
" write these trifles V % " In those hours, 5 ' answered 
Dionysius, " which you and I spend in drunkenness 
" and debauchery." 

* Alexander was remarkably fond of reading.— * 
Whilst he was filling the world with the fame of his 
victories, marking his progress by blood and slaughter, 
dragging captive monarchs at his charriot wheels, 
marching over smoking towns and ravaged provinces, 
and led on with increasing ardour to new victories, he 
felt many intervals of time hang heavy on his hands, 
and lamented that Asia afforded him no books to 
amuse his leisure. He wrote therefore to Harpalus, 
to send him the works of Philistus, the tragedies of 
EurifiideS) Sofihoctes, Eschylusy and the dithyrambics 
of Thalestes. 

Brutus, the avenger of the violated liberty of 
Rome, while serving in the army under Pompe?> em- 



i?0 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

ployed among books all the moments he could spare 
From the duties of his station. The hours which were 
allotted to the repose of the army, he devoted to read- 
ing and writing ; and he was even thus employed in the 
evening preceding the battle of Pharsalia ; the eel* 
ebrated battle by which the empire of the universe was 
decided. The army was encamped in a marshy plain j 
it was the middle of summer, and the heat of the sear 
son excessive. The servants who bore the tent of 
Brutus did not arrive until a late hour. Being much 
fatigued, he bathed, and towards no«n caused his body 
to be rubbed with oil, while lie waited their arrival.' — - 
Taking some little refreshment, he retired to his tefctj 
and while others were locked in the arms of sleep, or 
contemplating the probable event of the ensuing day, 
he employed himself, during the night, in drawing a 
plan from the History of Polybius. 

Cicero, who was more sensible of mental pleasures 
than any other character, says, in his oration for the 
poet Archias, " Why should I be ashamed to acknowl? 
" edge pleasures like these, since, for so many years, 
" the enjoyment of them has never prevented me 
« from relieving the wants of others, or deprived me 
" of the courage to attack vice and defend virtue. — . 
tf Who can justly blame, who can censure me, if, 
* while others are pursuing the views of interest, ga- 
" zing at festal shows and idle ceremonies, exploring 
« new pleasures, engaged in midnight revels, in the 
" distraction of gaming, the madness of intemperance, 
" neither reposing the body nor recreating the mind, 
" I spend the recollective hours in a pleasing review 
" of my past life, in dedicating my time to learning 
" and the muses." 

Pliny, the Elder, full of the same spirit, devoted 
every moment of his life to learning. Some person al* 
ways read to him during his meals ; and he never tra- 
velled without a book and a portable ridin g desk by his 



©N THE MINE ANB THE H£AB.T, 121 

side. He mack extracts from every work he read ; 
mid, scarcely conceiving himself alone while his facul- 
ties were absorbed in sleep, he endeavoured, by this 
^diligence, to double the duration of his existence. 

Pliny, the Younger, read wherever it was possible, 
whether riding, walking, sitting, or whenever the subr 
je.ct of his employment afforded him the opportunity ; 
/for he made it, indeed, an invariable rule to prefer the 
discharge of his duty to these occupations which he 
followed only as an amusement. It was this disposi- 
tion which so strongly inclined him to Solitude and 
retirement. " Shall I never break/ 5 said he, " the 
" chains by which I am withheld ? Are they indisso- 
a luble ? No ! I dare not hope for such an event ! 
" Every day adds new torments to the former.—— 
" Scarcely is one duty performed, than another is im- 
" posed ; and the chain of business becomes every 
" day more heavy ?j\& oppressive." 

Petrarch was always gloomy and low-spirited, ex- 
cept while he was reading or writing ; especially when 
he was prevented from resigning himself, in Solitude, 
to the finephrenzies of poetry, on the banks of some 
inspiring stream, among the romantic rocks and 
mountains, or the flower-enamelled valiies of the Alps* 
To avaid the loss of time, during his travels, he con- 
stantly wrote at every inn where he stopped for re- 
freshment* One of his friends, the Bishop of Cavii- 
lon, being alarmed, lest the intense application with 
which he read and wrote, when at Vaucluse, should 
entirely destroy his health, which was already greatly 
impaired, desired him, one day, to give him the key of 
his library. Petrarch gave it. to him, immediately, 
without suspecting the motive of his request : when 
the good Bishop, instantly locking up his books and 
writing desk, said, " I interdict you from pen, ink, pa-r 
per and books, for the space of ten days." Pete ak c if 
felt the seventy of the sentence, but conquered the vio- 

i. 



122 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

lence of his feelings, and obeyed. The first day ap« 
peared longer to him than a year ; en the second he 
was afflicted with a head-ache, from morning till night 
— and on the third, he was attacked by a fever. The 
Bishop, affected by the condition to which he was re- 
duced, returned him the key> and restored him to 
health. 

The late Earl of Chatham, as I have been informed, 
by his own nephew, (my intimate friend) w r as, in his 
youth, cornet in a regiment of dragoons, which was 
quartered in a small town, in England. He discharged 
his duty, upon all occasions, with scrupulous attention 
— but the moment his duty was performed, he retired 
to Solitude during the remainder of the day, and em- 
ployed his hours, alone, without visiting or being visit- 
ed, in reading the most celebrated authors of Rome 
and Athens. Attacked, at an early period of hrs life, 
by an hereditary gout, which he wished to eradicate, 
his mode of living was extremely frugal and abstemi- 
ous. The feeble state of his health, perhaps, made 
him fond of retirement ; but it certainly was in Soli? 
tude that he laid the foundation of that glory which he 
afterwards acquired. 

Charcters like this, it will, perhaps, be said, are not 
now to be found ; but, in my opinion, both the assertion 
and the idea would be erroneous. Was the Earl of 
Chatham inferiour, in greatness, to a Roman ? and will 
his son (Mr. Pitt) who, while yet ayouth r , thundered 
forth his eloquence, in the senate, like Demosthenes, 
and, like Pericles, captivated the hearts of all who 
heard him ; who now, when little more than thirty 
years of age, makes himself feared and respected as 
the prime minister of the British empire — ever think 
or act, under any circumstances, with less greatness 
than his illustrious father ? What men have once 
been, they may always be. Europe now produces 
men as great as ever swayed the,sceptre or command- 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEAKT. 123 

ed the armies of Greece or Rome. Wisdom and vir- 
tue, where an inclination to attain them prevails, may 
increase as much in publick as in private life, as well 
in the palaces of kings as under the roof of the hum- 
ble cottage. Wise Solitude is no where more respec- 
table than in the palace. The statesman may there, i: 
profound tranquility, plan the most important enter- 
prises, and live with calmness and content ; provided 
he discharges his duty without ostentation, and avoids 
the contagion of weak and frivolous minds. Instruc- 
tion may be acquired at all times, and in every place ; 
and although it may be difficult to return from the 
path which a man has once trod, and commence a new 
career, he may wisely employ the remainder of his 
days ; unless, while he has the power to display the 
steady light of truth, he contents himself with emit- 
ting the occasional twinkling of the glow-worm. 

Solitude will, ultimately, render the mind superior 
to all the vicissitudes and miseries of life. The man 
to whose bosom neither riches nor pleasure, nor gran- 
deur, can convey felicity, may, with abook in his hand, 
learn to forget cares, under the friendly shade of eve- 
ry tree. He tastes the pleasures which Solitude af- 
fords with exquisite delight : pleasures, lively and va- 
ried, pure and forever new. At his desk, he feels his 
mind exert itself with fresh vigour ; the exercise of 
his faculties then affords him the most pleasing sensa- 
tion of his existence, and inspires an idea of the char- 
acter which he may, in future, if he pleases, attain.™ 
If his views are great, and bis inclinations pure, the 
pleasures of Solitude become proportionally greatafcd 
good ; he fears, in a greater degree, the pernicious 
poison of flattery, and rejects, with higher disdain, the 
pursuit of idle and frivolous amusements. 

He who shuns the society of men, in order to ob- 
tain their love and esteem ; who rises, with the sun, 
to hold converse with the dead, is, without doubt, net 







124 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

booted at the break of day. The horses of such a man 
repose quietly in their stalls, and his doors remain 
carefully bolted against the intrusion of idle loungers. 
He studies, however, both men and manners ; never 
loses sight of the transactions of the world ; casts a 
retrospective eye upon tSe knowledge which his study 
and experience have gained ; and every observation 
which he makes on life, confirms a truth or refutes a 
prejudice : for in Solitude, the whole system of life is 
unveiled, stripped of its false glare, and represented 
in its natural state to our view : truth, which in the 
common intercourse of men always lies concealed, 
here exhibits itself in naked simplicity. Ah ! how 
happy is that man who has attained to a situation 
where he is not under the necessity of disguising 
truth ! 

But these pleasures of Solitude are not incompati- 
ble with our duty to the publick, since they are the 
noblest exercises in which we can employ our facul- 
ties for the good of mankind. Can it, in any situation, 
be a crime to honour, to adore, and sacredly to speak 
the truth ? Can it be a crime boldly and publickly 
to announce, as the occasion may require, that which 
an ordinary individual would tremble to think of ; and 
to prefer a generous freedom to a continual restraint ? 
Is not the liberty of the press the channel through 
which writers diffuse the light of truth among the 
veople, and display its radiance to the eyes of the 
great ? Good writers inspire the mind with courage 
to think ; and is not the free communication of senti- 
ment a cause of the progress and improvement of hu- 
man reason ? It is precisely this love of liberty which 
leads men into Solitude, that they may throw off the 
chains by which they are confined in the world ; it is 
from this disposition to be free, that he who thinks, in 
Solitude, boldly speaks a language which perhaps in 
society he would not have dared to hazard without 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART, 12a 

precaution. Timidity never finds its way into Soli- 
tude. The man who has courage to retire under 
peaceful lonely shades, disdains to exercise a base sub- 
mission to the pride and insolence of the great, 
and boldly tears from the face of despotism the mask 
by which it is concealed. 

Solitude conveys the most sublime and lasting 
pleasures to the soul, unless the body which it inhabits 
be entirely decayed ; pleasures which inspire serenity 
in every situation of life, afford consolation \mder all 
its misfortunes, continue for ever unexhausted, and at 
length, become as necessary to our happiness, as it 
is to the debauched mind of a man of the world to be 
for ev<sr trifling, inactive, or running from door to 
door in search of contemptible joys that are neve, r to 
be found. Cicero, speaking of the pleasures of the 
mind, says, << They employ us in youth, and amuse 
" us in old age ; in prosperity they grace and em- 
" hellish, ii] adversity they afford us shelter and sup- 
" port ; delightful at home, and easy abroad, they 
" soften slumber, shorten fatigue, and enliven retire- 
" mem." — " The Belles Letters," says Pliny the 
" Younger, are my delight and consolation. I know 
" of no study more agreeable : there is no misfor- 
" tune which they cannot alleviate. In the afflictions 
<c I feel for the sufferings of my wife, the sickness of 
" my servants, the death of my friends, I find no 
" relief but in my studies ; for, although I am then 
" made sensible of the magnitude of my evils, they 
evertheless become more supportable. " 

Philosophy, a love of letters, all that affords plea- 
sure or adds dignity to retirement, can only be learned 
in Solitude. Fine taste cannot be either cultivated or 
preserved among those vain pretenders, who, while 
you discourse with them upon subjects of science, 
speak of learning with contempt, and frequently tell 

L 2 





126 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

you with a sneer, " Oh ! I never enquire into such 
" vulgar things." 

The habit of thinking, of making new discoveries? 
of acquiring new ideas, is a never-failing resource to 
him who feels his mind enriched by observation, and 
knows how to apply the knowledge which he gains. 
When Demetrius had captured the city of Megara % 
the soldiers prepared to plunder it ; the Athenians* 
however, interceding strongly for its inhabitants, pre- 
vailed : Demetrius was satisfied with expelling the 
garrison, and declared the city free. Amidst these 
transactions, he recolleced Stilpo, a philosopher of 
great reputation, who sought only the retirement and 
tranquility of a studious life. Having sent for him, 
Demetrius asked, " if they had taken any thing 
" from him ?"— u JSfof* replied Stilpo, " I found none 
" that wanted to steal any knowledge" 

Solitude is the channel through which all those 
things flow which men conceal in the ordinary com- 
merce of life. The wounded feelings of a man who 
is able and disposed to write, may, in Solitude, derive 
the greatest comforts from literary composition. The 
pen, indeed, is not always taken up because we are 
alone ; but if we are inclined to write, it is indispensa- 
ble necessary that we should enjoy undisturbed quie- 
tude. The mind disposed to cultivate philosophy, or 
to court the muse, must be free from all embarrass- 
ment. He must not hear his children crying every 
moment at his door, nor must his servants incessantly 
intrude with messages of ceremony and cards of. com- 
pliment.* In short, he must be alone. Whether 
walking in the open air or seated in his closet, reeling 
«d under the shade of a spreading tree or stretched 
upon his sopha, he must follow all the impulses of his 
mind, and be at liberty to change his situation when 
and where he pleases. To write with success, he 
must feel an xrresistable inclination, and be able to obey 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 12'7 

the dictates of his taste and genius without impedi- 
ment or restraint. Unless all these advantages be uni- 
ted, the progress of the work must be interrupted, and 
the efforts of the mind suspended, until it feels that di- 
vine inspiration Which is capable of subduing every dif-JH 
ficuity and surmounting every obstacle. An autho$|9 
can never write well, unless he feels a secret call with- ^ 
in his breast, unless he watches for those propitious 
moments when the mind pours forth its ideas, and the 
heart warms with the subject. Revived by cheerful 
prospects, animated by the noblest sentiments, urged 
by contempt of difficulties, the mind will make a pow- 
erful effort, and fine thoughts, in suitable expressions, 
will Row spontaneously from his pen. The question, 
whether he ought, or ought not, to write, will then 
be resolved. The inclination is irresistable, and 
will be indulged, even at the expence of fortune, fami- 
ly, friends, patrons, and all that we possess. 

Petrarch felt this secret impulse when he tore 
himself from Jvig-ncn, the most vicious arid corrupted 
city of his time, to which the Pope had transferred the 
papal chair. Although honoured with the protection 
of the Holy Father, of princes, and of cardinals, still 
young and full of noble ardour, he exiled himself from 
that brilliant court, and retired to the famous Solitude 
of Vaucluse, at the distance of six leagues from dvig« 
71071, where he had only one servant to attend him. and 
all his possessions consisted of a small house and little 
garden. Charmed with the natural beauty which sur- 
rounded his humble retreat, he removed his library to 
it ; and, during his residence there, complected all his 
works, of which before he had only sketched the out- 
lints. Petrarch wrote more at Vaucluse than at any 
other place where he risided ; but, although he was 
continually employed in polishing his writings, he hes- 
itated long before he could resolve to make them pub- 
lic Virgil calls the leisure which he enjoyed al 



123 T*HE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

Mifiles ignoble and obscure ; but it was during this lei- 
sure that he wrote his Georgics, the most perfect of 
all his works, and which shews in almost every line 
that he wrote for immortality. 

Every great and excellent writer has this noble view, 
and looks with enthusiasm towards the suffrages of 
posterity. An inferior writer asks a more moderate 
recompence, and sometimes obtains the desired re- 
ward. Both, however, must withdraw from the dis- 
tractions of the World, seek the silence of the forest, 
and the freshness of the shade, and retire as it were in- 
to their own minds. To produce a work capable of 
reaching future generations, or worthy the attention of 
contemporary sages, the love of Solitude must entirely 
occupy the soul ; for, to the advantages resulting from 
Solitude, every thing they perform, all that they attain 
mast be attributed. Every advantage a writer gams 
by profound thinking is due to Solitude ; he there re- 
views and arranges whatever in the world has made 
an impression on his mind, and sharpens the dart of 
satire against the inveteracy of prejudice and the ob- 
stinacy of opinion. The faults of mankind strike the 
moral writer, and the desire of correcting them agi- 
tates his soul as much as the desire of pleasing actu- 
ates that of others. The desire of immortality, how- 
ever, is the last in which a writer ought to indulge . 

No one need attempt it, unless he possess the genius 
of a Bacon ; can think with the acuteness of a Vol- 
taire ; compose with the ease and elegance of a 
Rousseau ; and, like them, is able to produce master 
pieces worthy of being transmitted to posterity. Char- 
acters like these alone can say, " Our minds are ani— 
" mated by the sweet consolatory reflection, that our 
" names will be remembered when we are no more ; 
« by the pleasing whisper of flattery which we hear 
" from some of our contemporaries, of the approbation 
" we shall hereafter receive from those who are yet 



OS THE MIND AND THE HEART. 139 

w unborn, to whose instruction and happiness we have, 
M with all the ardour and esteem of love, devoted our 
" labours. We feel within us those seeds of emula- 
" tion, which incite us to rescue from death our better 
" part, and which prevent the happiest moments of 
« our lives from being buried in oblivion," 

The love of fame, as well by the feeble light of the 
lamp as on the throne or in the field of battle, produces 
actions, the memory of which is not extinguished by 
mortality, nor buried with us in the tomb. The me- 
ridian of life becomes then as brilliant as its morning. 
" The praises" says Plutarch, " bestowed upon 
* c great and exalted minds only spur on and rouse 
" their emulation. Like a rapid torrent, the glory 
« which they have already acquired hurries them ir- 
cc resistably on to every thing that is great and noble. 
<c They never consider themselves sufficiently reward- 
" ed. Their present actions are only a pledge of what 
cl may be expected from them, and they would blush 
" not to live faithful to their glory, and to render it 
" still more illustrious by the noblest actions." 

The man to whose ear idle adulation and insipid 
compliment is disgusting, will feel his heart warm 
when he hears with what enthusiasm Cicero says, 
" Why should we dissemble what it is impossible fop 
" us to conceal ? Why should we not be proud of con- 
11 fessing candidly that we all aspire to fame ? The 
* love of praise influences all mankind, and the great- 
" est minds are most susceptible of it. The philoso- 
" phers who most preach up a contempt for fame, 
" prefix their names to their works ; and the very 
" performances, in which they decry ostentation, are 
" evident proofs of their vanity and love of praise. 
" Virtue requires no other reward for all the toils and 
" dangers to which she exposes herself, than that of 
u fame and glory. Take away this flattering reward, 
" and what would remain in the narrow career of life 



I 



•130 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDZ 

" to prompt her exertions ? If the mind could 
M launch into the prospect of futurity, were the space 
u that bounds those of the body, she would not weaken 
" herself by constant fatigues, nor weary herself with 
" continual watchings and anxieties ; she would not 
" think even life itself worthy of a snuggle : but 
" there lives in the breast of every good man, a cer- 
K tain principle, which unceasingly prompts and in- 
" spirits him to the pursuit of a fame beyond the 
" present hour ; a fame, not commensurate to our 
" mortal existence, but co-extensive with the latest 
" posterity. Can we, who every day expose ourselves 
u to dangers for our country, and have never passed 
" one moment of our lives without anxiety and trou- 
11 ble, meanly think, that all consciousness shall be 
i% buried with us in the grave ? If the greatest men 
" have been careful to preserve their bustoes and 
" their statues, those images, not of their minds, but 
" of their bodies, ought we not rather transmit to pos- 
" terity the resemblance of our wisdom and virtue ? 
" For my part, at least, I acknowledge, that in all my 

* actions, I conceived that I was disseminating and 
tt transmitting my fame to the remotest corners and 
" the latest ages of the world. Whether, therefore, 
" my consciousness of this shall cease in the grave, 

* or, as some have thought, shall survive, as a prc- 
" perty of the soul, is of little importance ; for of one 
" thing I am certain — that at this instant I feel from 
" the reflection a flattering hope and delightful sensa- 
« tion." 

This is the true enthusiasm with which we ought te. 
inspire the bosoms cf the young nobility. Were any 
. one happy enough to light up this generous flame 
within their hearts, and thereby inure them to a con- 
stant application to their studies, we should see them 
shun the pernicious pleasures of their age, and enter 
with dignity on the career of heroes ; we might then 



• N THE MIND AND THE H£ART. IS 1 

expect them to perform the noblest actions, to add new 
lustre to science, and brighter rays to glory. To ex- 
ait the minds of noble youths, it is only necessary to 
inspire them with an aversion from every thing that is 
mean ; to excite a disgust from every thing thaf en- 
ervates the body or weakens the faculties of the mind ; 
to remove gfrom their company those vile and con- 
temptible flatterers who are continually descanting on 
the pleasures of sense, and who seek to acquire inte- 
rest and fortune only by leading them into crimes ; 
decrying everything that is great, and rendering them 
suspicious of every thing that is good. The desire of 
extending our fame by noble deeds, and of increasing 
our credit by internal dignity and greatness of soul, 
possesses advantages which neither high rank nor il- 
lustrious birth can bestow ; and which, even on the 
throne, cannot be acquired without the aid of virtue, 
and a fixed attention to the suffrages of posterity. 

The seeds of future fame are, in no instance, more 
plentifully sown than by the bold satirist who dares to 
condemn the follies of the multitude, to paint their 
prejudices, and expose their vices, in glowing and un- 
fading colours ; and whose writings, if they fail to re- 
form the people of that age, may operate upon suc- 
ceeding generations, extend their influence to their 
children's children, and perhaps render them more 
wise. Judicious precepts, great examples, merited 
glory, produce their effects, when the man of merit, 
whom envy has pursued, has descended to his grave. 
O, Lavater ! those base, corrupted souls, who only 
shine a moment and are forever extinguished, will be 
forgotten, while thy merit is honoured and beloved.— 
Thy foibles, for without them, thou wouldst not, in ef- 
fect* have been so great, will no longer be remembered, 
— and those qualities which distinguish thee from oth- 
ers will alone be seen ! The rich variety of thy lan- 
guage, the judgement with which thou hast boldly in- 



132 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

vented and created new expressions, the nervous bre>> 
ity of thy style, and thy striking picture of human man? 
ners and defects, will, as the author of " The Charac- 
" ters of German Poets and Prose Writers," has pre- 
dicted, extend the fame of thy " Fragments upon P/ii/s- 
iognomy'i to the remotest posterity, as one of the small 
number of German originals which do honour to the 
genius of the age. No person will then think that La- 
vater, a genius who has developed new truths, and 
created for himself so rich a language, believed in the 
juggles of Gessner. 

Such is the glory which attends tl;e works of great 
and excellent writers. The life after death, which Ci? 
cero seemed to hope for with so much enthusiasm, 
will arrive. The approbation which Lavater pre? 
dieted, his work an Physiognomy will receive, notwith- 
standing all those injuries which have been heaped up? 
on it, both in Swisserland and in Germany. But if Ci- 
cero had l^en only a Consul, and Lavater only a 
Thaumaturgus,* little of either the one or the other 
would be recorded in the archives of Time^ which ; ; 
swallows up the common characters of life, and only 
preserves those names for eternity which are worthy 
of everlasting fame. 

The invectives of the vulgar, the indignation of the 
criticks, are wreaked in vain against these celebrated 
pames, and against all those who may be tempted to 
imitate them. " Why," say each of them to the 
laughing blockhead, " would you expound the meaning \ 
" of all 'that I write, since my finest strokes, glanc- 
" ing through your mind, produce such frigid 
« ideas ? Who are you ? By what title do you claim 
« to be keeper of the archives of folly, and arbiter of 

* Thaumaturgus — one who works miracles ; a title gi~ 
- ven by the pafiists to those of their saints who were sup- 
fitseel to work miracles*— Translator. 



0N THE MIND AND THE HEART. 133 

" the publick taste ? Where are the works by which 
" you are distinguished ? When and where have you 
" been announced to the world ? How many superior 
" characters do you you reckon among the number 
" of your friends ? What distant country is conscious 
" that such a man exists ? Why do you continually 
" preach your 7iil admirari ? Why do you strive to 
* depreciate every thing that is good, great, and sub*: 
" lime, unless it be from a sense of your own iittle- 
& m ness and poverty ? Do you seek the approbation of 
" the weak and giddy multitude, because no one else 
u esteems you ? If you despise a fair and lasting fame* 
" because you can do nothing that is worthy of honest 
u praise, the name you endeavoured to ridicule, shall 
" be remembered when yours will be forgot," 

The desire of glory is equally natural and allowable* 
in men even of little sense and judgement ; but it is 
not from the opinion of such characters, that writer*, 
expect fame. It is from reflecting and impartial 
minds ; from the approbation of those virtuous and 
private characters, for whom alone they withdraw 
from the multitude, and whose bosoms open willingly 
to a writer, when they observe the confidence with 
which he desires to disclose his sentiments ; it is to 
obtain the approbation of such persons alone, that 
writers seek the shades of Solitude. 

After those who scribble their names on walls and 
on panes of glass, no character appears to me less 
formed for glory than the man who writes solely for 
the place in which he dwells. He who, without being 
a member of any academy or literary club, seeks for 
fame among his fellow-citizens, is a fool who sows his 
seed upon a rock. They may, perhaps, pardon some- 
thing that is good ; but nothing that is severe, great or 
free. To the prejudiced multitude, therefore, he must 
learn to be discreetly silent ; for, openly to avow sen- 
timents which would do honour to his character, or by 

M 



134 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

which he might acquire the praises of other men, is 
only to exasperate against himself all those among 
-whom he lives. 

But a writer of true taste and sound judgement is 
conscious that impartial and rational minds, through- 
out the universe, adopt other principles, in appreciating 
the merit of a good work, than those which influence 
the judgement of his fellow-citizens. True criticks 
enquire) u Does the work relate to the interests of 
" mankind ? Is its object useful, and its end moral ? 
u Will it inform the understanding and amend the 
" heart ? Is it written with freedom and impartiality ? 
*< Does it bear the marks of honesty and sincerity ? 
" Does it attempt to ridicule any thing that is good or 
" great ? Does a manly style of thinking predomi- 
" Date ? Does reason, wit, humour and pleasantry 
" prevail in it ? Does it contain new and usefultruths ? 
" I fit inspires noble sentiments and generous resolu- 
" lions, our judgement is fixed — the work is good— - 
" and the author a master of the science." 

In the ordinary commerce of the world ; in that in- 
tercourse of flattery and falsehood, where every one 
deceives and is deceived ; where all appear under a 
borrowed form, profess friendships which they do not 
feel, and bestow praises only that they may receive 
them back in return — men bow the lowest to him 
whcm they despise the most, and distinguish every sil- 
ly woman whom they meet by the title of " Your 
Grace."* But he who lives retired from the circle of 
illusion expects no compliments from others, nor bes- 
to v/s them but where they are deserved. A thousand 
of the insidious grimaces with which we are honoured 
in publick life, are nothing to the sweet converse of 
private friendship, which inspires us with a noble bold-? 
ness, renders us insensible to all the oppressions of the 

* J title given> in Germany, to fiersons of quality c 



GN THE MIND AND THE HEART. 135 

world, points out the road to true honour, and accom- 
panies us on our way to attain it. 

Of what value are all the babblings and vain boast- 
ings of society, to that domestick felicity which we 
experience in the company and conversation of an 
amiable woman, whose charms awaken all the dor- 
mant faculties of the soul, and inspire the mind with 
finer energies than all our own exertions could attain ; 
who, in the execution of our enterprises, prompts us 
by her assistance, and encourages us by her approba- 
tion, to surmount every difficulty ; who impresses us 
with the greatness of her ideas, and the sublimity of 
her sentiments ; who Weighs and examines, with ju- 
dicious penetration, our thoughts, our actions, oup 
whole character ; who observes all our foibles, warns 
us with sincerity of their consequences, and reforms 
us w T ith gentleness and affection ; who, by a tender 
communication of all her thoughts and observations, 
conveys new instruction to our minds, and by pouring 
all the warm end generous feelings of her heart into 
our bosoms, animates us incessantly to the exercise of 
every virtue, and completes the polished perfection of 
our character, by the soft allurements of love, and th* 
delightful concord of her sentiments. 

In such an intercourse, all that is virtuous and no 
ble in human nature is preserved within the bfea&t, 
and every evil propensity dies away. The multitude 
see us as we ought to be in publick, and not as we are 
in Solitude ; for in the world, we always turn the 
smooth surface outwards, and carefully conceal all 
the sharp angles of our characters ; by which meairs, 
we contrive to pass without doing hurt to any person, 
and men find pleasure in our company.* 

* " Le materiel constitutes the highest degree of merit ; 
41 and to live in peace, we ought to take great care that 
u the other side of our characters should be perceived*" 
said a great man to me ; one of the dearest and most res- 
pectable among my friends in Germany. 



\T 3 6 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

But we are viewed with different eyes by our fellow- 
eitizens, and by contemporary writers. By the latter, 
our defects as well as our good qualities are easily 
discernible in our writings, which, if we express one 
sentiment with sincerity, often become the strongest 
evidences against us. This idea, however, is consola- 
tory to the feelings of our dear countrymen, to whose 
tars, perhaps, the praises we receive may reach, and 
who are obliged to admit the mortifying idea, that 
there are people, in the world who hold us in some 
esteem. The human character, it is true, frequently 
exhibits a singular mixture of virtue and vice, of 
length and weakness ; and why should we conceal 
it ? Our foibles follow all that is terrestrial in our na- 
ture to the tomb, and lie buried with the body in which 
they were produced. The nobler part, if we have 
performed any work worthy of existence, survives ; 
and our writings are the best wealth we leave behind 
us when we die. 

But, exclusive of this enthusiasm, Solitude affords a 
pleasure to an author, of which no one can deprive 
him, and which far exceeds all the honours of the 
world. He not only anticipates the effect his work 
will produce, but, while it advances towards comple- 
tion, feels the delicious enjoyment of those hours of 
serenity and composure which his labours procure. 

What pleasure Mows through the mind of an estab- 
lished writer, from the uninterrupted attention and the 
glowing enthusiasm which accompanies it ! Sorrows 
fly from this elegant occupation, and misfortunes are 
forgotten. Oh ! I would not exchange one single 
hour of rich perfect tranquility, for all those flat- 
tering illusions of eternal fame with which the mind of 
Tully was so incessantly intoxicated. Solitude, in 
the mid^t of continual sufferings, is an enjoyment 
which not only rationally connects the soul with the 
present moment, but renders it susceptible of every 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 137 

p-oou impression, and raises it to felicity. The secret 
pleasure of having produced at least something, is un- 
known to men of vigorous constitutions ; for they 
confide in the strength of their powers. But to a wri- 
ter afflicted by ill health, a difficulty surmounted a 
happy moment seized, a propo r tion elucidated, a sen- 
tence neatly and elegantly turned, an harmonious peri- 
od or a happy expression, are salutary and dealing 
balms, counter-poisons to melancholy, the most pre- 
cious advantages of Solitude, and infinitely superior 
to those dreams, those presentiments of honour and 
glory after death. Oh i who would not willingly re- 
nounce, for one of these enjoyments, that enthusiasm, 
against which reason opposes so many powerful ob- 
it, : lions ; and which, to me, does not appear quite satis- 
factory, except when we do not altogether enjoy our 
usual presence of mind. 

To enjoy himself without being dependent on the 
aid of others ; to devote to employments not-, perhaps, 
altogether useless, those hours which sorrow and cha- 
grin would, otherwise, steal from the sum of life — is 
the great advantage of an author ; and with this ad- 
vantage, alone, I am perfectly content. And who is 
there that does not derive pleasure from Solitude, 
when he perceives the progress he is capable of ma- 
king during a few hours, while the multitude roll in 
their carriages through the street, and make every 
wall of the house tremble to its foundation ? 

The singularities of some writers are, oftentimes, the 
effects, and frequently the reri advantages of Solitude, 
Long absent from all commerce with the world, their 
dispositions becona^less flexible and compliant. Even 
he, however, who lias preserved the manors of socie- 
ty, is not fond of being obliged to shew himself in 
company differently from what he is ; and he seizes 
the pen, from sport, if it be only to afford a single 
consolation to his feelings. 

M2 



138 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

But in this, perhaps, the world may say that a wri- 
ter acts improperly ; and that this easy manner of en- 
tertaining the reader neither contributes to his pleasure 
nor his information. This style of writing, however* 
has- its merit ; literature acquires, by it, a greater de- 
gree of freedom ; it teaches the mind to rise above a 
creeping, servile train of thought ; and it is more ap- 
propriated to the necessities of the time. If a nation is 
not yet possessed of all that its greatest men could 
wish, she may attain it, if they are capable of extirpa- 
ting ancient prejudices, if freedom of sentiment be en- 
couraged, and if, in each province, some philosophical 
writers should be found who bo^diy express their opin- 
ions. To entertain readers is, in my opinion, only to 
deliver freely, in writing, that which, in the general in- 
tercourses of society, it is impossible to say, either 
with safety or politeness. This is what I call Liberty 
— ari inestimable treasure ! which, under a wise and 
moderate administration, every one enjoys 'who lives 
in Solitude. 

In a treatise upon Style, printed at Weymar, a 
gentleman appears very strongly to oppose this new 
manner of writing. In honour of the Solitude and 
Liberty by which it was produced, I should have 
manv things to say to him, although I perfectly coin- 
cide with him upon many points. He wishes one gen- 
eral rule to be adopted with respect to style, and I con- 
tend for that freedom in literary compositions which 
will allow of style according to every man's fancy and 
humour. He thinks thr.t a writer should always have 
a model before him ; I think that every writer is his 
own model. He wishes writers to folio w the style of 
others ; I think that writers should, as much as it is 
possible, let every thing be their own — not the style 
alone, but every other property belonging to composi- 
tion. He is unwilling that the writer should be dis- 
coverable in the work \ though it appears to me 3 that 



OX THE MIND AND THE HEART. 139 

he may be permitted publickly to decom/iose the state 
of the mind, and to make observations en his own 
character, for the benefit of other men, rather than to 

leave his body, by will, to a professor of anatomy 

He recommends authors to proceed by regular steps ; 
I hate to be taught, by others, how I ought to walk.-— 
He says, that it is the present fashion with authors to 
disclose what were the feelings of their souls when they 
wrote ; I cannot altogether conceal how I find myself 
when I converse with my readers. He appears not 
inclined that they should conceive themselves alone 
when they are writing ; while, very frequently, I write 
only that I may have the opportunity of expressing 
one word alone. 

This treatise upon the subject of style, however, 
contains, in general, a true and judicious criticism ; 
and especially towards the conclusion, which is filled 
with observations equally accurate and profound. This 
was the only passage, through the work, of which I 
disapproved ; for although the ramblings, extravagan- 
ces and digressions of our beanx esprit s displease me 
as much as they do this gentleman, I think, neverthe- 
less, that this free and easy style of writing, which can 
Only be acquired in Solitude, has produced a greater 
degree of liberty than was heretofore enjoyed — and 
that this liberty, employed with taste and discretion, 
will promote the circulation of a greater number of 
useful truths than there still exist of dangerous preju- 
dices. 

The light of philosophy has been prevented from 
penetrating into many recesses, solely because the 
manners of societies, the voice of the people, and the 
opinion of the publick, follow one uniform step. Ev- 
ery man listens and looks ftp to the sentiments of his 
neighbour ; and no one dares to deviate from the ordi- 
nary mode of judgement. Men of the world, who 
best know the art of appropriating to themselves the 



140 THE INFLUENCE 0? SOLITUDB 

newest and most refined ideas of others, are obliged to 
conceal them, and to follow the general manners of 
the age. But when authors begin, from the retreats of 
Solitude, to appear before the publick without dismay ; 
when they study the characters of every description of 
people, with their manner of acting, and their modes ' 
of thinking ; when they once dare, with boldness and 
confidence, to describe things by their true names, and 
disclose, by their writings, all those truths which eve- 
ry free and liberal mind ought to be permitted to dis- 
close ; their instruction will circulate gradually 
among the people, the philosophy of human life will 
spread itself abroad, every man will dare to think for 
himself, and disdain to be guided by the publick opin- 
ion. To effect this revolution, however, it is necessary 
that our writers should be acquainted with a different 
region than merely that of the University, or even of 
their own provincial town : their minds must be form- 
ed by an intercourse with men of every state and every 
nation : they must neither fear the great nor despise 
the inferior classes of mankind ; and they must learn 
to retire occasionally from this intercourse with the 
world, to long and uninterrupted Solitude ; to re- 
nounce the seductions of pleasure, to free themselves 
from the ties of Society, and above all, to become 
deaf to the praise or censure of those among whom 
they live, when employed as inducements to the pro- 
pagation of falsehood, or the suppression of truth. 

The Germans felt an Helvetic severity in the taste 
and style of those works which I formerly wrote, and 
this severity was, without doubt, the consequence of 
my solitary life. The Spectator of Tkuringia, for 
four years successively, defended me with equal vi- 
vacity and skill against the very heavy reproaches, that 
I was a peevish, hypocritical philosopher, who was 
never pleased with any production, and always viewed 
the worst side of things \ that nothing was sacred from 



«N THE MIND AND THE HEART. 241 

the keenness of my criticism, and the severity of my 
satire - T but that the nation was too modest, too decent, 
too delicate, and too virtuous to be entertained by such 
compositions ; in short, that English writers were in- 
sufferable to German delicaey, and of consequence, 
it was impossible to endure the Swiss. 

But it appears to me, that they confound* the man- 
ners of the world with the style of books. Harshness 
is, without doubt, excluded from society ; whilst, on 
the other hand, the naked truths which well-written 
works or letters from time t® time disclose, frequently 
strike the mind, and produce an effect. * I am my- 
" self extremely chaste," said a poet, " but I ac- 
" knowledge that my works are not." A writer, 
therefore, may be civil and polite in his personal 
intercourse with mankind, and still properly severe in 
his works. Why should authors write as they speak, 
if they never speak as they think ? Is it not enough 
that when they mix in Society they endeavour to please 
every one ; that when they have once entered into So- 
ciety, they submit, without exception, to whatever 
the Lvars of politeness exact ; give up whatever is in- 
sisted on, maintain no opinions unnecessarily, always 
yield the privilege of talking to others, and do every 
thing as if they were only there to hear and learn ? 
Are there not, however, many beaux esfirits who are 
insufferable in company, from a vain conceit that their 
writings are the last best models of elegance and ur- 
banity ? Would not such a character act more wisely, 
to correct, in his commerce with the world, the er- 
rours that may have escaped from .his pen, than to 
restrain his pen and never check lus tongue ? He, alas ! 
who in the circles of Society, is kind in his behaviour 
and complaisant in his manners, may surely be per- 
mitted, once at least, to hazard in his writings, a bold, 
or even a harsh expression, and to insert here and 



142 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

there a melancholy truth, when so many others are 
occupied in circulating- sprightly falsehoods. 

Energy of thought is banished from the language 
of conversation. But if the freedom with which an 
author expresses himself in his writings, be insuffera- 
ble in the intercourse with the world, the soft and 
meretricious language of society would be ridiculous 
in literary*composicion. An author must speak in the 
language of truth ; in Society, a man is in the con- 
stant habit of feeling it only, for he must impose a 
necessary silence upon his lips. The manners of men 
are formed by intercourse with the world ; and their 
characters by retiring into Solitude, Here they will 
soon discover whether they have only learned com- 
plaisance, or have acquired freedom of thought, firm- 
ness of expression, dignity of sentiment, and grandeur 
of style. , 

Solitude raises the mind to a high degree of eleva- 
tion and power. The man who has not courage enough 
to place himself above the prejudices and fashions of 
the world ; who dreads the reproach of singularity ; 
who forms and conducts himself upon the example of 
others ; will certainly never acquire a sufficient de- 
gree of resolution, to live a life of voluntary Solitude. 
It has been well observed, that Solitude is as indis- 
pensably necessary to give a just, solid, firm and 
forcible tone to our thoughts, as a knowledge of the 
world is to give them richness and brilliancy, and to 
teach us to make a wise and happy application of 
them. 

The mind, when employed in the pursuit of noble 
interesting objects, is cleansed from those hspurities 
with which the habits of indolence stain the vacant 
breast. The soul, enjoying freedom and tranquility, 
feels all its energies with superior force, and displays 
an extent of power which was before unknown. The 
will sharpens itself in Solitude ; for as the faculties- 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 143 

are capable of greater exertions in the liesure it af- 
fords, as we enjoy greater liberty and tranquility, as 
our ideas become more dear, luminous and extend* 
ed, as we see with greater certainty into the conse- 
quences of things, the mind exacts much more from 
itself in Solitude than in the world. The tranquility 
of Solitude, however, must no. degenerate into idle 
ease, into a state of mental numbness or stupefaction. 
It is not sufficient for this purpose, to be continually 
gazing out of a window with a thoughtless mind, of 
gravely walking up and down one ? s study in a ragged 
robe de chambre and worn out slippers* The exterior 
f>f tranquility gives no elevation to the soul, inspires 
no activity, except when we are well persuaded that 
Solitude is necessary, or feel it to be a desire of the 
soul. It is then only that it becomes a precious liber- 
ty, animating, at the same instant, both the reason and 
the imagination. 

One of my illustrious friends has frequently assur- 
ed me, that he never felt so strong an inclination to 
write, as during a review, when forty thousand per* 
sons left their houses, and travelled on foot, in cai> 
jnages, or on horseback, to observe the manoeuvres of 
a single battaliion. This friend has published many 
treatises upon the sciences* but he never wrote a tri- 
fle full of wit and gaiety, until the day of the review, 
In early youth, I never felt so strong a disposition to 
employ my mind on serious subjects, as on Sunday 
mornings, when, far retired in the country, I heard 
jthe sharp and tinkling sound of the village bells, while 
all my fellow-citizens, occupied in their devotions, 
frizzled and powdered their heads to go to church. 

Continual interruption destroys all the good effects 
of Solitude, Disturbance prevents the "mind from col- 
lecting its ideas. This is the reason why an estab- 
lishment frequently takes away more" advantages than 
ft brings. In the world, every person is obliged tQ 



144 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

attend to the duties of his particular station, and must 
perform what they exact from him ; but in Solitude, 
a man may be just what he wishes, and what he is. 
If, therefore, a judicious philosopher, or a man of 
genius does not follow the received usages of his sta- 
tion, they say of him, " This is a fool ; he only knows 
" how to write books :" or perhaps, " His writings 
" are good, but as for himself, he is an ass." 

The mind cf a solitary man attacks prejudice and 
error, with as much vigour and courage as an athtetic 
champion meets his adversary. Kepeated examina- 
tions bring the objects of our attention more near ; 
we behold their properties with greater certainty, and 
feel more strongly that which we have seen. If the 
soul enter entirely into itself, it then becomes more 
e v asy to work with "efficacy on external objects. A 
man of a reflecting and intrepid mind, who retires 
within his own bosom, seizes truth wherever he 
discovers her, and regards with the tranquil smile of 
pity, those who think themselves authorised to speak 
of her with contempt ; he hears, without being dis- 
concerted, the invectives which envy and prejudice 
throw out against him ; for he perceives a weak mul- 
titude making hue and cry the moment he opens 
his hand, and unlooses one of the truths which it con- 
tains. 

Solitude affords us an opportunity to diminish 
the number of our passions ; for out of a multiplicity 
of trifling inclinations she forms one great desire. It 
is certainly possible, that Solitude may produce dan- 
gerous effects upon the passions ; but, Providence be 
thanked ! it may also produce the most salutary ef- 
fects. If it be capable of disordering the mind, it is 
also capable of effecting the cure. It draws out and 
separates all the various propensities of the human 
heart ; but it collects and re-unites them all into one. 
Yes, in Solitude we feel and learn 3 not only the nature> 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART, 143 

but the extent and influence of all the passions, which 
rise up against us like angry waves, and endeavour to 
overwhelm us in the abyss, until Philosophy flies 
to our aid, and divides their force. If we do not yield 
an easy victory, by neglecting all opposition to their 
attacks ; Virtue and Self-denial bring gigantic powers 
to our assistance, that will melt the " rocks and bend 
the knotted oak." In short, every thing is possible 
to Virtue and Resolution, the instant we learn 
that one passion is only to be conquered by another. 

The mind feels itself proudly dignified by that 
greatness of soul which we acquire by a commerce 
with ourselves, and, disdaining every ignoble object, 
.withdraws itself, on every side, from corrupt Society. 
A virtuous mind observes the sons of worldly pleasure 
precipitate themselves into scenes of riot and de- 
bauchery? without being seduced. In vain is it circu- 
lated on every side, that debauchery is the earliest 
propensity of man, especially of a young man, who 
wishes to know life ; in vain is it represented as ne- 
cessary to form connections with girls of the tenderest 
youth, as it is to eat and sleep ; no, the noble mind 
feels and sees that debauchery renders youth unmanly, 
insensible to the charms of virtue, and callous to the 
principles of honesty ; that it destroys all resolution, 
inspires timidity and pusillanimity in the hour of dan- 
ger, and prevents them from undertaking any great 
. and glorious enterprize ; that by the indulgence of 
libertinism, the generous warmth'an.d fine enthusiasm 
of soul, its noble fondness for the sublime and beauti- 
ful — all its powers are last. r£s, therefore, who re- 
tains a wish to appear great and henoura] 
world, must renounce forever the habits of indolence 
and luxury. The moment he ceases to injure his 
faculties by debauchery, and discontinues 
to renovate them by an excess of wine a 
living, he will no longer fee] it vy freque 

N 



146 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

to take the air, nor to consume the whole day on 
horseback. 

All men without exception have something contin- 
ually to learn. Whatever may be the distinguished 
rank which they hold in Society, they can never be 
truly great but by their personal merit. The more 
the faculties of the mind are exercised in the trail qui* 
lity of retirement, the more conspicuous they appear ; 
and should the pleasures of debauchery be the ruling 
passion, O ! young man ! learn that nothing will so 
easily subdue it, as an increasing emulation in great 
and virtuous actions, a hatred of idleness and frivolity, 
the study of the sciences, a frequent communion with 
thy own heart, and that high and dignified spirit which 
views with disdain every thing that is vile and con* 
temptible. 

This generous pride discovers itself with dignity 
and greatness in the retreats of Solitude, where the 
passion for every sublime object. operates with greater 
freedom than m any other situation. The same pas- 
sion which carried Alexander into Asia y confined 
Diogenes to his tub. Heraclitus quitted the 
throne to devote himself to the search of truth. He 
who wishes to render his studies useful to mankind, 
must first have made his observations in the world, 
without dwelling in it too long, or quitting it with re- 
gret. The world enervates the mind, and destroys its 
vigour. CiESAR, in the course of a few days, tore 
himself from Cleopatra, and became the master of 
the empire ; but Anthony took her as his mistress, 
was for ever in her arms, and by his effeminacy lost 
both his life and the world. 

Solitude, it is true, inspires the soul w r ith high 
and exalted notions, which are incompatible with the 
transactions of common life. But a lively, ardent pas- 
sion for whatever is great, points out to the solitary 
man the possible means of supporting himself 0$ 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 147 

heights which would turn the heads of worldly-minded 
men.. The circumstances which accompany Solitude, 
extend the faculties of the mind, influence the feelings 
of the heat*, and place the man so much above the 
level of humanity, that he feels himself immortal. 
To observe upon the life of a man of the world, we 
should say, that each day ogght to be the last of his 
existence. The pleasures of Solitude make ample 
compensation for every privation, while the worktiy- 
minded man thinks all happiness is at an end if he 
happens to miss a favorite diversion, to be deprived cf 
attending his club, or is disappointed in seeing the' 
celebrated conjurer, the new boxer, or the wild 
beasts just arrived from a strange land, which the 
handbills of the day have announced. 

I never recollect without feeling the warmest emo- 
tions that passage where Plutarch says, " I live 
" entirely upon history, and while I contemplate 
" the pictures it presents to my view, my mind enjoys 

* a rich "'*. v . v>t from the representation of great and 
" virtuous characters. If the actions of men, which 

* I must necessarily look into, produce some in- 

* stances of vice, corruption and dishonesty, «I en- 
w deavour, nevertheless, to remove the impression, or 

* to defeat its effect. My mind withdraws itself from 
" the scene, and, free from every ignoble passion, I 
R attach myself to those high examples of virtue, 
" which are so agreeable and satisfactory, and which 
" accord so completely with the genuine feelings of 
" our nature." 

The soul, attached by Solitude to these sublime 
images, forgets every object that would attract it to- 
wards the earth, mounts as it proceeds, and casts the 
eye of disdain on those links which would chain it to 
the world, and tend to intercept or weaken its {light. 
At this height, the faculties and inclinations develope 
themselves. Every man is, perhaps, capable of i 



148 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

ing much more than he performs ; and for this rea- 
son, it is wise and glorious to attempt every atchieve- 
tnent that - does not appear physically impossible. 
How many dormant ideas may be awakened ; and 
then, what a variety of early impressions, which were 
seemingly forgot, revive, and present themselves to 
our pens I We may always accomplish much more 
than we conceive, provided rJassion fans the fire which 
imagination has lighted ; for life only appears insup- 
portable, when it is- no longer animated by the soft 
affections of the heart. 

A state of existence without passion* is, in Solitude 
as well as in every other situation of life, the death of 
the soul. Disease and long-suffering, after I had 
oeasec4 to breathe my native air, occasionally reduced 
me, during many years, to this horrible condition. 
While those amongst whom 1 lived, and who were 
ignorant of my real situation, thought that I was an- 
gry, and expected every moment that I should seize 
the lanoe and shield, I passed quietly on liiy way, and 
resigned myself with care and cordiality, to the bene- 
ficent employments of my profession. While the 
against me was general, I remained perfectly 
iffsehslble, and preserved an inviolable silence. The 
languors of sickness, the tortures of a wounded heart, 
the oppression of domestic misfortunes, had vanquish- 
ed my mind, and rendered it insensible to every other 
concern. My brain continued for several years as ob- 
durate as marble ; I passed many 'hours, day after 
day, without a thought ; I frequently uttered the di- 

* u The force of the passions," says a great philoso- 
pher, " can alone counterbalance, in the human mind, 
'** the effects of indolence and inactivity ; steal us from 
fca ' that repose and stupidity towards which we incessantly 
w gravitate, and at length endow the mind with that ccn- 
u tinuity ci attention to which superiority of talent is 
4 > attached." 



ON THE MIXD AND THE HEART. 14S 

rect contrary to what I meant ; I could scarcely take 
any nourishment ; I could derive no support Irani | 
that which strengthens others ; I expected, every 
step I-took, to fall to the ground; audi suffered all the 
punishments of hell, whenever I sat down with an in- 
tention to write. The world contained nothing that 
could interest me, except only the secret object of my 
chagrin, which I kept closely locked within my bleed- 
ing heart. 

The passions have no existence until the moment 
the corps become capable of indal 

those dispositions which ■ _ previously implajited in 
the breast. The soul, therefore, which ought to be 
kept in j of constant exercise, acting only by 

! organs, it is necessary that their ope- 
rations should not be obstructed ; for the soul, both in 
the tranquility of Solitude, and in the study of the 
world, can never become active and enterprising, 
whoe it is impeded by these subaltern agents. Why 
is it not always in our power to live in Solitude, and 
accord in g to our inclinations, since it is certain that 
Solitude affords happiness to the heart in ev^cy period 
of our lives, and leads the mind to the fertile sources 
of every great conception ? How passionately fond of 
Solitude would every noble-minded youth become, if 
he were capable of perceiving tire variety of grand 
ideas, sublime sentiments", and profound knowledge, 
which he might there acquire in the earliest periods 
of his infancy ! A wise old age finds its happiest days 
in the retreats of Solitude. The mind there thinks 
with greater dignity than in the world. In the tran- 
quility of retirement, we see how every thing ought to 
be conducted ; while in society, we see how things 
are carried on. Uninterrupted reflection and profound 
thought inspire the greatest works which the human 
mind is capable of producing ; while in society, the 
intellectual spirit evaporates by its continual attention 
N 2 



* 



Is50 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUBE 

|o trifling objects* Solitude, on the contrary, must 
possess a very powerful charm, since so many men 
forget in retirement all the cares of life, and learn to 
despise every thing that belongs to earth ; they suffer 
their lands to lie fallow, abandon their crops to weeds, 
or leave them a prey to the beasts of the field. 

When the mind is filled with an enthusiasm for 
great atchievements, it loses, in general, all conside- 
ration for tricing objects. This is the reason why, in 
, conducting little concerns, common sense* is much 
ir.ore useful than genius. The oidmary occupations 
of life destroy the enthusiasm of genius, which nothing 
wij] so effectually restore as Solitude, liesure, and li- 
berty. The philosophical observer and profound wri- 
ter, therefore, have no other resource, when they are 
surrounded and encumbered by a multiplicity of af- 
feirs. Misunderstood and ridiculed, their souls sicken 
under the general pressure, and become almost ex- 
tinct ; for what inducement can there be to write a 
great and distinguished work," when the author is pre- 
viously convinced that every one will endeavour to 
turn it into ridicule the moment they learn from whose 
pen it was produced ? The desire of fame dies, where 
merit is no longer rewarded by praise. But remove 
such a writer or philosopher from the multitude ; 
give them liberty, leisure, pens, ink, and paper, and 
they are revenged ; for they will then produce writ- 
ings which whole nations will- be eager to read. A 
great variety of men, who possess extraordinary tal- 
ents, remain undistinguished, only because their minds 

* a A man of Common Sense," says Helvetius, " is 
'■* a man in whose character indolence predominates. He 
" is not endowed with that activity of soul which, in high 
il stations, leads great minds to discover new springs by 
* { which they may set the world in motion, or to sow 
" those seeds, from the growth of which they arc enabled 
" to produce future events,'^ 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART* 151 

languish under employments which do not require trJBj 
aid of thought, and which, for that reason, are mucfl^ 
better suited to the ignorant vulgar, than to the refin- 
ed philosopher. 

Solitude restores every thing to its proper place ; 
there the mind rejoices in being able to think, in being 
enabled to deiive pleasures from pursuits which other 
men dislike, and, of course, in being able to appro- 
priate so much time to itself. The hatred which is 
generally entertained against solitary men, frequently 
proves a source of enviable happiness. Indeed, it 
would be a great misfortune to him who is meditating 
in tranquility the execution of some excellent work, 
if he were universally beloved : for every one would 
then be anxious to visit him ; he would be pestered 
with invitations to dinner ; and the first question in all 
companies would be, " Will he come ?" Happily, 
however, Philosophers are not the characters most 
distinguished and beloved by the world ; and they have 
the pleasure of reflecting, that the public hatred is ne- 
ver universally excited against an ordinary man. Ac- 
knowledge, then, that there is something great in that 
man against whom all exclaim, at whom every one 
throws a stone, to whose conduct all impute a thou- 
sand absurdities, and on whose character all attempt 
to affix a thousand crimes without being able to prove 
one. The fate of a man of genius, who lives retired 
and unknown, is still more enviable : he may then re- 
main quiet and alone ; and as it will appear natural to 
him that his sentiments should not be understood, he 
will not be surprised if the vulgar should condemn 
whatever he writes, and all he says, or that the efforts 
of his friends to correct the judgement of the publick 
with respect to his merit, should prove useless. 

Such was, with respect to the multitude, the fate 
of the Count Schaumbourg-Lippe, better known by 
the title of the Count de Buckj£bourg. Of ail th# 



1*5% THE INFLUENCE O? SOLITUDE 

Merman authors, I never new one whose writings 
Bpere more ridiculed or so little understood ; and yet 
his name was worthy of being ranked among the 
greatest characters which his country produced. I 
became acquainted with him at a time when he lived 
almost continually in Solitude, and retired from the 
world, managing his small estate with great discre- 
tion. There was, indeed, it must be confessed, 
something in his manner and appearance, which, at 
first sight, created disgust, and prevented you from 
paying a proper attention to the excellent qualities of 
mind. 

The Count de Lacy, formerly Ambassador from 
Sfiain to Pett raburgh, informed me at Hanover, that 
he ltd the Spanish army against the Portuguese, at 
Die lime they were commanded by the Count de 
Buceebodeg ; tie singularity of whose person and 
manners so forcibly struck the minds of all the Spanish 
genera's, while ere reebnnoitering the enemy 

with their telescopes, that they exclaimed with one 
voice, " Are the Portuguese commanded by Dox 
Quixote ?*' The Ambassador, however, who pos- 
sessed a very liberal mind, spoke with enthusiastic 
rapture of the good conduct of Bxjckebouiig in Por- 
tugal, and praised, in the warmest terms, the excel- 
lence of his mind, and the greatness of his character, 
His heroic countenance, his flowing hair, his tall and 
meagre figure, and above all the extraordinary length of 
his visage, might in ti uth bring back the recollection of 
the Knight of La Mancha ; for certain it is, that, 
at a distance, he made a most romantic appearance : 
on a nearer approach, however, a closer view imme- 
diately convinced you of the contrary. The fire and 
animation of his features announced the elevation, 
sagacity, penetration, kindness, virtue, and serenity 
of his soul; Sublime sentiments and heroic thoughts 



' ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 153 

were as familiar and natural to his mind, as they wer-cif 
to the iioblest characters of Greece and Rome. 

The Count was born in London, and his conduct 
was without doubt whimsical and extraordinary. The 
anecdotes related to me by a German Prince (a rela- 
tion of Count Guillaume) concerning him, are, 
perhaps, not generally known. He was fond of con- 
tending with the English in every thing, For in- 
stance, he laid a wager, that he would ride a horse 
from London to Edinburgh backwards, that is, with 
the horses head turned towards Edinburgh, and the 
Count's face towards London ; and in this manner, he 
actually rode through several counties in England. 
He not only traversed the greatest part of that king- 
dom on foot, but travelled in company with a German 
prince through several bounties, in the character of a 
beggar. Being informed, that part of the Danube 
above Regensberg, was so strong and rapid that no 
one had ever dared to swim across it, he made the at- 
tempt, and swam so far, that it was with difficulty he 
saved his life. A great statesman and profound phi- 
losopher, related to me at Hanover, that, during the 
war in which the Count commanded, the artillery in 
the army of Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick against 
the French, he one day invited several Hanoverian of- 
ficers to dine with him in his tent. When the com- 
pany were in high spirits, and full of gaiety, several 
cannon balls flew in different directions about the tent. 
" The French," exclaimed the officers, " cannot be 
" far off." « No, no," replied the Count, « the 
" enemy, I assure you, are at a great distance ;" and 
he desired them to keep their seats. The firing soon 
afenvards re-commenced ; when one of the balls car- 
rying away the top of the tent, the officers rose sud- 
denly from their chairs, exclaiming, " The French 
" are here."— ." No," replied the Count, " the French 
w are not here ; and therefore, Gentlemen, I desire 



154 THE INFLUENCE Or SOLITUDE 

I " you will again sit down, and rely upon my word. 5 ' 
The balls continued to fly about ; toe oncers, 'howe- 
ver, continued to eat and drink without apprehension, 
though not without whispering their conjectures to 
each other upon the singularity of their entertainment, 
T;;t Count at length rose from the table, and, ad- 
c!r if to the company, said, " Gentlemen, 

Ci I was willing to convince you how well I can rely 
" upon the officers of my artillery ; for I ordered 
* 4 them to fire, during the time we continued at din- 
" ner, at the pinnacle of the tent ; and they have ex- 
" ecufed my orders with great punctuality/' 

Reflecting minds will not be unthankful for these 
traits of the character of a man, anxious to exercise 
himself, and those under his command, in every 
thing that appeared difficult or enterprizmg. Being 
one day in company with the Count, by the side of a 
magazine of gunpowder which he had made under his 
bed-chamber, in Fort Wilhelmstein, I observed 
to him, that " I should not sleep vtvy contentedly 
" there, during some of the hot nights of summer." 
The Count, however, convinced me, though I do not 
now recollect how, that the greatest danger and no 
danger is one and the same thing. When I first saw 
this extraordinary man, which was in the company of 
an English and a Portuguese officer, he entertained 
rne for two hours with a discourse upon the physiology 
of Hauler, whose works he knew by heart. The 
ensuing morning, he insisted on my accompanying 
him in a little boat, which he rowed himself, to Fort 
Wilh elm stein, which, from plans he shewed me 
of his own drawing, he had constructed in the middle 
of the water, where not a foot of land was to be seer*. 
One Sunday-, upon the great parade at Pyrmont, 
surrounded by many thousand men, who were occu- 
pied in dress, dancing, and making love, he enter- 
tained me on the very spot during the course of two 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 155 

hours, and with as much tranquility as if we had been ; 
alone, by detailing ali the arguments that have been 
used to prove the existence of a God, pointing out 
their defective parts, and convincing me that he could 
surpass them all. To prevent my escape from this 
lesson, he held me fast all the- time by the button of 
my coat. He shewed me, at his seat at Bucke- 
bourg, a large folio volume, in his own hand-writing, 
" On the Art of defending a small Town against a 
u great Power." The work was complete]}/ finish* 
ed, and designed as a present to the king of Portugal ; 
but he did me the favour to . read many passages res- 
pecting the security of Swisserland. The count 
considered the Swiss invincible ; and pointed out to 
me, not only all the important parts which they might 
occupy against an enemy, but shewed me roads which 
a cat would scarcely be able to crawl through, I do 
not believe that any thing was ever written, of higher 
importance to the interests of any country than this 
w r ork ; for the manuscript contains striking answers to 
all the objections that a Swiss himself could make. 
My friend, M Moyles Mendelsohm, to whom 
Count had read the preface to this work at Pyrmo 
considered it as a master-piece, both for its con 
language and fine philosophy ; for the Count ca 
write the French language, with almost the same a 
elegance, and purity, as Voltaire ; while in 
German, he was laboured, perplexed, and diift 
What adds to his praise, is, that upon his retun 
Portugal, he had with him, for many years, tw< 
the most acute masters of Germany ; first Abbt, 
afterwards Herder. Those who see with more p 
et rating eyes than mine, and have had more oppoi 
nities to make observations, are able to relate a vari 
of remarkable anecdotes concerning this truly gi 
and extraordinary man. I shall only add one obs 
yation more respecting his character, availing ittyiw? 



135 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

of the words of Shakespeare : the Count Guil- 
laume de Schaumeerg Lippe carries no dagger ? 

M He has a lean and hungry lcok"rr- 

« — _ but he's not Uangtrous ; 

44 he reads much ; 

44 He is a great observer ; and he looks 

M Quite thvo 1 the decels of men. He loves no plays | 

M _ - - /?? hears no musick ; 

44 Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort, 
44 As if he mod: 'ci himself, and scorned his spirit 
u --Tiiat could be mwved to smile at any thing." 

JULIUS CffiSAR, ACT 1, SCENE 4. 

Such was the character, always misunderstood, of 

this solitary man. A character of this description 

may well smile, when lie perceives himself scoffed at 

by the world ; hut what must he the shame and con? 

fusion cf these partial judges, when they shall behold 

the rajonument which the great Me n pel son m has 

erected to his memory ; or the judicious history of 

his life, which a young author is about to publish, at 

Hanover—the profound sentiments, the noble style, 

truth and sincerity of which, will be discovered 

acknowledged by impartial posterity. 

h2 meo who laugh (as I have seen them laugh a 

'sand times) at Buckebourg, on account of his 

; visage, his flowing hair, his great hat and little 

rd, may very well indulge their smiles of scorn, if, 

the Count, they are philosophers and heroes. The 

n'tde Buckebourg, however, never smiled at the 

Id or upon men but with kindness. Without ha- 

vvithout misanthropy, he enjoyed the tranquility 

ds country house, situated in the bosom of a thick 

st, frequently alone,, or with the virtuous woman 

ran whom he had chosen for his wife ; and for 

m, while living, he c id not appear tc entertain any 

aordinary fondness ; but when she died, his 

affection f6r her was so great that the loss of her 

brought, him almost to the grave. 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 157 

It was thus that the people laughed at Themisto- 
cles, in Athens. They reviled him, openly, as he 
passed along the streets, because he did not possess 
the manners of the world, the ton of good company, 
and was ignorant of that accomplishment which was 
called genteel breeding : — one day, however, he retort- 
ed upon these railers with the keenest asperity. " It 
" is true," said he, " I never learned how to tune a 
" lyre, or play upon a lute ; but I know how to raise 
" a small and inconsiderable city to glory and great- 
" ness." 

Solitude and philosophy, therefore, although they 
may inspire sentiments at which the world will laugh, 
banish every mean and sordid idea from the mind, 
and prepare the way for the grandest and most sub- 
lime conceptions. He who is accustomed to study 
the characters of great men, and to admire elevated 
sentiments, will, almost imperceptibly, adopt a roman- 
tick style of thinking, which may frequently afford an 
ample subject to laughter. The romantick mind al- 
ways views things differently from what. they are or * 
ever can be ; and a ^constant habit of contemplating 
tht sublime and beautiful, renders such characters, in 
t the eyes of the weak and wicked, ridiculous and in-* 
] supportable. Men of this turn of mind always disco- 
\ yer a nobleness of soul which frequently offends the 
lashionable world ; but it is not, on that account, less 
noble. The philosophers of India, annually quitted 
their solitude, to visit the palace of the king ; when, 
each of them, in his turn, delivered his advice upon fihe 
government of the state, and upon the changes and li- 
mitations which might be made in the laws. He who 
three successive times communicated false or unim- 
portant observations, lost, for one year, the privilege 
of speaking in the presence of the sovereign. There 
are many other romantick philosophers, who would 
require much more, but would do nothing. Pion- 

o 



ijS THE INFLUENCE ©F SOLITUDE 

&ys requested the Emperour Galienus to confer up- 
on him the sovereignty of a small city in Campania, 
and the lands appendant to it. The city was to be 
called Platonojiolis ; for PloTinus had promised to 
reside there, with his friends, and realize the republic^ 
of Plato. But it happened then, as it frequently 
happens now, in many courts, to philosophers muck 
less chimerical than PLoFiNus?-*ihe courtiers laugh- 
at the proposal ; and told the Emperour that the phi* 
losopher was a fool, whose mind experience could not 
reform. 

The picture of the greatness and virtue of the an- 
cients produces, in Solitude, the happiest influence 
upon minds susceptible of those ideas and sentiments. 
Sparks of that bright flame w T hich warmed the besoms 
of the great and good, sometimes operate the most 
vmexpected effects. To cheer the drooping spirits of 
a lady in the country, whose health was impaired by a 
nervous affection, I advised her to read, very frequent- 
ly, the history of the Greek and Roman empires.—. 
At the expiration of three months, she wrote to me, 
« With what veneration for antiquity have you inspir- 
& ed my mind ! What are the buzzing race of the 
« present age, when compared with those noble char- 
" actors ! History, heretofore, was not my favourite 
" study ; now, I live only on its pages. I feel, during 
" the progress of my study, the strongest inclination 
" to become acquainted with all the transactions of 
" Greece and Rome. It has opened to me an inex- 
" haustible source of pleasure and health. I could 
" not have believed that my library contained so ines- 
" timable a treasure ; it v/ill become dearer to me 
" than any thing I inherit. In the course of six months 
" you will no longer be troubled with my complaints. 
« My Plutarch has already become more valuable 
" to me than all the triumphs of coquetry ; or all that 
R sentimental writing, addressed to ladies in the coun* 



ON THE MIXD AND THE HEART, 159 

<* try 5 who are inclined to be all heart, and with whom 
< v Satan plays tricks of love with the same address as 
« a dilletante plays tricks of musick on the violin. 55 — 
This lady, who, I confess, is learned, gives me fur- 
ther information respecting the conduct of her kitch- 
en and the management of her poultry yard ; but she 
has recovered her health, and I think she will, hereaf- 
ter, find as much pleasure in house-keeping and feed- 
ing her chickens as she did formerly from the pages . 
of PluTarch* 

The history of the grandeur and virtue of the* an- 
cients cannot operate, for any length of time, except in 
the tranquility of retirement, or among a small circle 
of men ; but it may produce, in. the event, the happi- 
est effects. The mind of a man of genius is, during 
his solitary walks, filled with a crowd of ideas which 
appear ridiculous to his fellow-citizens ; but the peri- 
od will arrive when they will lead millions to perform 
actions worthy of immortality. The Swiss songs, 
composed by Lava^er, appeared at a time unfavour- 
able to their reception, and when the republick was in 
a declining state. The Swiss society of ^chintzuach, 
who had prevailed upon that ardent genius to compose 
those songs, offended the French ambassador ; and, . 
from that time, the society was exclaimed against, 
from every corner of the kingdom. The great Hal- 
ler, himself, pointed his epigrams against the mem- 
bers, in every letter which I received from him ; for 
they had long refused to admit him into the society. 
He considered us as enemies to orthodoxy, and as dis- 
ciples of Jean Jacques Rosseau^ a man hateful to litis 
eyes. The President of the Committee for the refor- 
mation of Literature, defended, at Zurich, the Swiss 
songs of LavaTer, from the excellent motive, that it 
was not proper to stir up the old dung-hill. No poet 
of Greece, however, wrote with more fire and force in 
favour of his country, than Lava?£R did for the irAzv- 



i60 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

ests of Swisserland. I have heard children chant 
these songs with patrotick enthusiasm ; and seen the 
finest eyes filled with tears, while their ears listened 
to the singer. Rapture glowed in the breasts of the 
Swiss peasants to whom they were sung ; their mus- 
cles swelled, the blood inflamed their cheeks. Fath- 
ers, with whom I am acquainted, have carried their 
infant children to the chapel of William Tell, to 
sing, in full chorus, the song which LavaTer wrote 
upon the merits of that great man. I have made the 
rocks re-echo to my voice, by singing these songs to 
the musick which my heart composed for them, in 
the fields, and upon those celebrated mountains where 
these heroes, the ancestors of our race, signalized 
themselves by their immortal valour. I thought my- 
self encompassed by their venerable shades. I fanci- 
ed that I saw them still, armed with their knotted 
clubs, breaking to pieces the crowned helmets of Ger- 
many ; and, although inferior in numbers, forcing the 
proud nobility to seek their safety by a precipitate and 
ignominious flight. 

This, I shall, perhaps, be told, is romantick ! for 
romantick ideas can only please solitary and recluse 
men, who always see objects in a different point of 
view from the multitude around them. Great ideas, 
however, sometimes penetrate, in spite of the most 
obstinate resistance. In republicks, they operate in- 
sensibly, and inspire elevated sentiments, which may 
become extensively useful in times of trouble and 
commotion. 

Every thing unites, in Solitude, to raise the soul 
and fortify the human character ; because the mind 
there habituates itself, much better than in the world, 
to noble sentiments and heroick resolutions. The sol- 
itary man possesses a charm against all the shafts of 
stupidity, envy, and wickedness. Resolved to think 
and to act, upon every occasion, in opposition to the 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 161 

sentiments of narrow -minds, he attends to all the con- 
trarieties he meets with, but is astonished at none.*—* 
Entertaining a just and rational esteem for friends, 
but sensible, also, that they, like enemies, generally 
indulge their feelings to excess, that ail of them are 
partial, and inclined to form too favourable a judge- 
ment ; he appeals, therefore, to the judgement of the 
publick : not, indeed, to the publick of his own city, 
who always consider the fierson and not the things in 
controversy ; who never decide until they have heard 
the opinions of two or three beaux esprits j but he ap- 
peals to the world at large, at whose impartial tribu- 
nal he appears, and, with his works in his hand, de* 
mands the justice that is due. 

But it is commonly thought that Solitude, by ele- 
vating the sentiments, renders the mind unfit for 
business : this, however, I do not believe. It must 
ever be highly beneficial to raise the soul by the ad- 
vantages of retirement, and to exercise the mind in 
Solitude, in such a manner as will prevent our totter- 
ing so frequently in the world, and give us full pos- 
session of it in all the events of publick life* The love 
of truith is preserved by Solitude, and virtue there ac- 
quires a greater firmness ; although I acknowledge 
that in business, it is not needful always to tell the 
truth, and that a rigid virtue frequently miscarries in 
the affairs of life. 

The virtue and simplicity of manners which Soli- 
tude produces, are revered by the great and good of 
every clime. It was these inestimable dualities 
which, during the highest fury of the war between 
England and France, obtained the philosophic^ Jean 
Jndre de Luc, the reception he met with at the 
court of Versailles, and inspired the breast of the vir- 
tuous, the immortal De Veroennes with the desire 
to reform, by means of a philosopher, the heads of the 
citizens of Geneva; which he, with all the power of 

Oz 



162 THE INFLUENCE OF S0L1TVDE 

the Prime-Minister of France, had not been able to 
effect. < Be Luc, at the request of the minister, made 
the attempt, but failed of success ; and France, as it 
is well known, was obliged to send an army to reclaim 
the Genevese* It was upon his favourite mountains, 
that the philosopher Jean Andre De Luc acquired 
that simplicity of manners which he still preserves 
amidst all the luxury of London, where he endures 
with firmness all the wants, refuses all the indulgen- 
ces, and subdues all the desires of social life. At 
Hanover, I could only remark one single instance of 
luxury in which he indulged himself ; when any- 
thing vexed his mind, he xhewed a little morsel of su- 
gar, and, of course, always carried a small supply of 
it in his pocket. 

Solitude not only creates simplicity of manners, but 
prepares and strengthens the faculties for the toils of 
busy life. Fostered in the bosom of retirement, the 
mind feels a greater degree of activity when it engages 
in the transactions of the world, and retires again into 
tranquility to repose itself, and prepare for a jiew con- 
flict. Pericles, P hoc ion, Epaminondas, laid the 
foundation of all their greatness in Solitude : they 
there acquired that style which is not to be learned in 
the forum of the university — the style of their future 
lives and actions. When the mind of Pericles was 
occupied by important objects, he never appeared in 
the streets, except to transact his business, and in- 
stantly renounced feastings, publick assemblies, and 
every other pleasure of the kind. While the adminis- 
tration of the affairs of the republick was in his hands, 
he only went once to sup with a friend, and came 
away very soon. Phocion immediately resigned him- 
self to the study of philosophy, not from the ostenta- 
tious motive of being called a wise man, but to place 
himself in a condition to conduct the business of the 



CN THE MIND AND THE HEART. 163 

atate with greater resolution and effect*. The people 
were astonished, and enquired of each other when 
and by what means Epaminondas^ after having passed 
his whole life in study, had not only, learned, but as it 
were all at once exercised, the military art in its high- 
est perfection. He was frugal of his time, devoted 
his mind entirely to the delights of literature, and, 
desiring nothing so much as to be exempt from busi- 
ness, withdrew himself from every public employment. 
His country forced him from the retreats of Solitude, 
gave him the command of the army, and he saved 
the republick. 

A character upon which I never reflect but with 
the highest transports, the character of Petrarch, 
was formed entirely in Solitude, and was by that 
means rendered capable of transacting the most com- 
plicated political affairs. Petrarch was, without 
doubt, sometimes, what persons very frequently be- 
come in Solitude, choleric, satirical, and petulant. 
He has been reproached with great severity, for the 
lively pictures he has drawn of the manners of his 
age, and particularly for his portrait of the scenes of 
infamy which were transacted at Avignon, under the 
reign of Pope Clemen? The Sixth. But Petrarch 
was perfectly acquainted with the human heart, knew 
how to manage the passions with uncommon dexteri- 
ty, and to conduct them directly to his purpose* The 
Abbe de Sades, the best historian of his life, says, 
« Petrarch was scarcely known except as a tender 
" and elegant poet, who loved with unextinguishable 
" ardour, and sung, in all the harmony of verse, the 
" graces of his mistress ; and nothing more is known 

* Thus Tacitus speaks of Helvidius Priscus ; 
li Ingcriam illustre altioribus studiis juvenis admodum 
u deditj non ua magnifico nomine olium velaret, sed qu& 
IC Jirmior advertw fortuit wm/tublicam cajie$ure$S* 



16<£ THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

" of his character." They knew not all the obliga- 
tions that literature, which he reclaimed from the 
barbarity under which it had been so long buried, 
owes to his pen. They knew not that he saved the 
works of the best writers of antiquity from dust and 
rottenness ; that all these precious treasures would 
have been lost to us, if he Lad not dug them from the 
grave, and procured correct copies of them to be 
made. They were ignorant, perhaps, that he was the 
first restorer of the belles lettres in Europe ; that he 
purified the taste of the age ; that he himself thought 
and wrote like an ancient citizen of Rome before its 
fall ; that he extirpated a multitude of prejudices, 
preserved his courage and firmness until the hour of 
his death, and that his last work surpassed all those 
which had preceded it. Still less were they informed, 
that Petrarch was an able statesman, to whom the 
most celebrated sovereigns of his age confided every 
difficult negociation, and consulted in their most im- 
portant concerns ; that in the fourteenth century, he 
possessed a degree of fame, credit, and influence, 
which no man of learning of the present day has ever ac- 
quired ; that three popes, an emperour, a sovereign of 
France, a king of Naples, a crowd of cardinals, the great- 
est princes, the most illustrious nobility of Italy, culti- 
vated his friendship, and solicited his correspondence ; 
that, as a statesman, a minister, an ambassador, he 
was employed. in transacting some of the greatest af- 
fairs of the age ; that he was thereby placed in a situ- 
ation to instruct them in the most useful and important 
truths ; that to Solitude alone he owed all this power ; 
that no person was better acquainted with its advan- 
tages, cherished it with greater fondness, or resound- 
ed its praises with higher energy ; and that he at 
length preferred Liberty and Leisure to all the enjoy- 
ments of the world. He appeared a long time ener- 
tated by Loye, to which he had consecrated the prime 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 165 

of his life ; but he suddenly abandoned the soft and ef- 
feminate tone with which he sighed at Laura's feet; 
addressed himself, with manly boldness, to kings, to 
emperours, to popes ; and ever afterwards, maintained 
that confidence, which fine talents and a great charac- 
ter, always inspire. With an eloquence worthy of 
DEMssfHEiiES and Cicero^ he exhorted the princes of 
Italy to make peace among themselves, and to unite 
their powers against the common enemies, the bar- 
barians, who tore to pieces the very bosom of their 
country. He encouraged, guided and supported 
RiENZiy who appeared like a guardian angel sent from 
Heaven, to re-establish the original splendour of the 
city of Rome. He incited a pusillanimous emperour 
to penetrate into the heart of Italy, and to seize, as 
the successor of the Caesars, the government of 
the empire. He conjured the popes to replace the 
holy chair, which they had transported to the borders 
of the Rhine, once more upon the banks of the Tiber. 
At a time even when he acknowledges, in one of his 
writings, that his mind was filled with vexation, his 
bosom tormented by a tender passion, which he was 
incessantly endeavouring to conquer, disgusted with 
the conduct of men, and tired of publick life ; Pope 
Clemen? the sixth, who, without doubt, was ignorant 
of what was passing in his heart, entrusted him with 
a negotiation of great difficulty, to the court of Na- 
ples* Petrarch undertook the charge. He confes- 
ses that the life of a court had rendered him ambi- 
tious, busy and enterprising ; and that it was laugha- 
ble to behold a hermit, accustomed to live in woods 
and traverse the plains, now running through the 
magnificent palaces of cardinals, with a crowd of cour- 
tiers in his suite. When John VisconTi^ archbishop 
and prince of Milan and sovereign of all Lombardy, 
a man who united the finest talents with an ambition 
*o insatiable that it threatened to swallow up all Italy, 



165 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUBE 

had the happiness to fix Petrarch in his interests* 
and, by inducing him to undertake the office of private 
secretary, to gain every thing that could accompany, 
such an acquisition, a philosopher and a man of learn- 
ing, who esteemed Solitude above any other situation ; 

the friends of Petrarch excaimed " How ! this 

" bold republican, who breathed no sentiments but 
" those of liberty and independence ; this untamed 
" bull, who spurned at the shadow of the yoke ; who 
" disdained any other fetters than those of love, and 
<s v/ho frequently found even these too heavy ; who 
" refused so many advantageous oners frora the court 
tt of Rome, and preferred his liberty to all the ensla- 
" ving charms of gold — now voluntarily submits to 
6i the shackles of the tyrant of Italy ; this misan- 
" thrope, who could no longer exist but in rural tran* 
" quility ; this great apostle of Solitude, has, at length 
u quietly taken his habitation amidst the tumults of 
" Milan i" « My friends, 5 ' replied Petrarch, « you 
" are perfectly right ; man has not a greater enemy 
u than himself. I have acted contrary to my inclina- 
u tion, and against my own sentiments* Alas ! in all 
" the transactions of our lives, we do those things 
u that we ought not to do, and leave undone those 
11 things to which we are most inclined. " But Pe- 
trarch might have told his friends, " I was inclined to 
11 give you an example of what a man is able to do in 
11 the affairs of the world, when he has sufficiently ex- 
" ercised the powers of his mind in Solitude ; and to 
" convince you, that a previous retirement confers 
" liberty, firmness, expression solidity, dignity, and 
w nobility, upon all the transactions of publick life," 

Aversion from the commerce of the world, and the 
frivolous employments of the metropolis, inspires the 
mind w 7 ith a -sufficient degree of courage to despise the 
prejudices of the age, and the opinions of the multi- 
tude- — a courage which is, therefore, seldom found ex- 



©K THE MIND AND THE HEAHT. 1 6f 

fcept among solitary men. The commerce of the 
world, far from fortifying the soul, only weakens it ; 
in the same manner that enjoyment, too frequently re? 
peated, blunts the edge of every pleasure. Oh ! how 
frequently the best plans fail of success, from difficul- 
ties of execution, notwithstanding the accuracy and 
excellence with which they are formed ! How many 
happy thoughts have been stifled, at the moment of 
their birth, because they then appeared rather too 
bold ! When a literary work appears, no enquiry is 
made concerning the excellence of the matter^ or the 
elegance of its composition. The reader seeks only 
%o divine the intention of the author ; construes eve? 
yy expression contrary to its import ; perceives a vehi 
of satire where, in fact, no saUre exists— -where it 
would be impossible that there should be any ; and 
disfigures even those respectable truths which the au- 
thor discloses in the sincerity of his heart, and for 
which every just and honest mind will silently thank 
him. 

The President Montesquieu experienced this, 
treatment, at Paris, in the meridian of his splendour ; 
and for this reason he has observed, in the defence of 
his immortal work, " The Spirit of Law* a "~« Noth- 
" ing stifles knowledge more than covering every 
if thing with a dector's robe ; for the men who are 
" continually teaching, are great hindrances to learn* 
" ing. There is no genius that is not contracted, 
" when it is enveloped by a million of vain scruples. 
" Although you have the best intentions that were ever 
ff formed, they will even force the mind to doubt its 
" own integrity. You can no longer employ your en- 
" deavours to speak or to write with propriety, when 
w you are perplexed with the fear of expressing your* 
£ : self ill, and when instead of pursuing your thoughts, 
11 you are only busy in selecting such terms as may 
f? escape the subtlety of the critics. They seem in? 



16,8 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLXTUPE 

M clined to place a biggin on our heads, and to warn 
"■us at every word. Take care ijou do not falL You 
" would sjicak like yoarselj, but I would have you speak 
« like meP " If you attempt to soar, they pull you 
« by the sleeve, and impede your flight. If you write 
" with life and spirit, they instantly deprive you of it. 
M If you rise to some height, they take out their rule 
" or their compass, and lifting up their heads, de- 
" sire you to come down, that they may measure 
" you : and in running y®ur course, they advise you 
<* to take notice of all the impediments which the ants 
" have raised in your way." 

I^'onfesqwieu says, " that no science nor literature 
" is proof against this pedantry." But, did he not 
himself resist it ? Does not his work continue to be 
reprinted ? Is it net reai' with universal applause ? 

The writer who knows, and dares to paint the char- 
acters of men, must, without doubt, wear a triple shield 
upon his breast : but, on the other hand, there is no 
book worth reading without this style of painting.— 
There are certainly truths in every good work, against 
which the indignation of those who are interested will 
iturally arise. Why do the English so far surpass 
us in their speculations upon mankind ? Why do we 
appear so puerile, when compared with them, or with 
the Greek and Roman writers, on every subject that 
respects the description of human manners ? It pro- 
ceeds from the clamours which are raised against eve- 
ry author who hazards any opinions upon the philoso- 
phy of life for the general benefit of mankind. We, 
who honour, in so high a degree, the courage of the 
1 warrior ; why, like effeminate Sybarites, do the fold- 
ings of a rose-bud trouble our repose ? Why do we 
vomit forth injuries against that civil courage, the 
courage without arms, the domesticus fortitudine* pf 
Cicero ? 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 169 

It is false, that there is neither heart nor spirit ex- 
cept in Republicks ; that under the democratic!* form 
of government alone, people may speak the truth 
with freedom and safety, and he who thinks well may 
think freely. In Aristocracies especially, and even 
under a constitution much more free, hut where a 
single demagogue possesses the sovereign power, 
unhappily, alas ! they too frequently consider common 
sense as a crime. This absurdity renders the mind 
timid, and, of course, deprives the people of all their 
liberty. In a Monarchy, punishment, is, in almost 
every instance, prescribed by the laws of justice ; but 
in Republicks, it is inflicted by prejudice, passion, and 
state-necessity. Under a republican form of govern- 
ment, the first maxim parents inculcate into the minds 
of their children is, not to make themselves enemies. 
To this sage counsel, I remember replying* when I 
was very young, " My dear mother, do you not know, 
" that he who has no -enemies is a poor man ?" The 
citizen is, in many republicks, under the authority and 
vigilant eyes of more than a hundred princes ; but a 
monarch is the sole prince on whom his subjects are 
dependent. The number of masters in a republick 
crushes the spirit ; but, in a monarchy, love and con- 
fidence in one alone, raises the spirits of the happy 
people. In every country, however, the rational man, 
who renounces all the useless conversations of the 
world, who lives a life of Solitude, and who, superior 
to every thing that he sees, to all that he hears, forms 
the integrity of his mind in the tranquility of retire- 
ment, by an intercourse with the heroes of Greece, of 
Rome, and of Great-Britain, lays a permanent foun- 
dation for his future character, and acquires a noble 
style of thinking, independent of the caprices of the 
vulgar. 

These are the observations I had to make respect- 
ing the Iniluence of Solitude upon the Mind. Many 

P 



170 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

of them are perhaps, undigested, and many more are 
certainly not well expressed. 

Dear and virtuous young man, into whose hands 
this book perchance may fall, receive with kindness 
and affection the good which it contains, and reject 
all that is cold and bad ; all that does not touch and 
penetrate, the heart. But if you thank me for the 
performance, if you bless me, if you acknowledge 
that I have enlightened your mind, corrected your 
manners, and tranquilized your heart, I shall congratu- 
late myself on the sincerity of my intentions, and think 
my labours richly rewarded. If, in perusing it, you 
find yourself able to justify your inclination for a wise 
and active Solitude, your aversion from those societies 
which only serve to destroy time, and your repug- 
nance to employ vile and shameful means in the ac- 
quisition of riches, I shall ask no other benediction 
for my work. If you are fearful of opening your lips ; 
if you labour under the continual apprehension of say- 
ing something that may be considered ridiculous, in 
the understandings of those who have granted to them? 
selves the monopoly of wit and taste, and who, by vir<? 
tue of this usurpation, go about uttering the greatest 
absurdities — ah ! then think, that in such company, 
I should be considered an equal blockhead with 
yourself. 

The sentiments of my mind and the feelings of my 
heart, have guided me in every thing that I have 
written upon the subject of Solitude. It was this that 
occasioned a lady of great wit to observe, on reading 
the two first parts of this work, that I should unbo- 
som myself upon every thing that I felt, and should 
lay down my pen the moment those feelings were 
expressed. This method of writing has certainly 
produced faults which a systematic philosopher would 
not have committed. But I shall console myself for 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 171 

these errours, if this chapter affords only a glimpse of 
the advantage of Solitude upon the minds, the under- 
standings, and the characters of men ; and that which 
follows shall excite a lively sensation of the true, noble, 
and sublime pleasures which Solitude produces, by a 
tranquil and affectionate contemplation of nature, and 
by an exquisite sensibility for every thing that is good 
and fair. 



%72 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 



CHAPTER THE FOURTH 



THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE UPON THE HEAl&T, 



JJ EACE OF MIND is, upon earth, the supreme 
good. Simplicity of heart will procure this invaluable 
blessing to the wise mortal, who, renouncing the noisy 
pleasures of the world, sets bounds to his desires and 
inclinations, cheerfully submits himself to the decrees 
of Heaven, and, viewing those around him with the 
«ye of charitable indulgence, feels no pleasure more 
delightful than those which the soft murmur of a 
stream falling in cascades from the summit of rocks, 
the refreshing breezes of the young zephyrs, and the 
sweet accents of the woodland chanters, are capable 
ef affording. 

How refined our sentiments become when the 
tempests of life have subsided ; when those misfor- 
tunes which caused our afflictions have vanished ; 
when we see ourselves surrounded by friendship, 
peace, simplicity, innocence, repose, and liberty I 

The heart, to taste the charms of retirement, need 
not be without emotion. Oh ! who would not prefer 
to every other enjoyment the soft melancholy which 
Solitude inspires ? Who would not renounce the 
universe for one single tear of love ? The heart is 
susceptible of this felicity, when it has learned to 
admire with equal pleasure nature in its sublimest 
beauties, and in the modest flower which decorates 
the valley ; when it has learned to enjoy, at the same 
time, that infinite system, that uniform succession of 
parts, which expands the soul, and those delicious de- 
tails which present soft and pleasant images to the 



ON THE KIND AND THE HEART. 173 

mind. These pleasures are not exclusively reserved 
for strong energetick minds, whose sensations are as 
lively as they are delicate, and upon whom, for that 
reason, good and bad make an equal impression. 
The purest happiness, the most enchanting tranquility, 
are also within the reach of men whose temperament 
is cold ; who, endowed with imaginations less bold 
and lively,- always perceive something extravagant in 
the energetick expression of a still more energetick sen- 
sation : in the pictures, therefore, which are presented 
to the eye of such characters, the colouring must not 
be high, nor the teints too sharp ; for, as the bad 
strikes them less, so also, they are less susceptible of 
the livelier enjoyments. 

The heart owes the most agreeable enjoyments 
which it derives from Solitude, to the imagination. 
The touching aspect of delightful nature ; the varie- 
gated verdure of the forests ; the noise of an impetu- 
ous torrent ; the quivering motion of the foliage ; the 
harmony of the groves, and an extensive prospect, 
ravish the soul so entirely, and absorb in such a man- 
ner all our faculties, that the thoughts of the mind are 
instantly converted into sensations of the heart. The 
view of an agreeable landscape excites the softest 
emotions, and gives birth to pleasing and virtuous sen- 
timents ; all this is produced by the charms of ima- 
gination. 

The imagination spreads a touching and seductive 
charm over every object, provided we are surrounded 
by freedom and tranquility. Oh ! how easy it is, to 
renounce noisy pleasures and tumultuous assemblies, 
for the enjoyments of that philosophick melancholy 
which Solitude inspires ! A religious horrour and soft 
raptures are alternately excited by the deep gloom of 
forests, by the tremendous height of broken rocks, and 
by the multiplicity of sublime and majestic objects 
which present themselves to our Yiew ; on the delight 
P 2 



174 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

fal scite of a smiling landscape. There are no sensa* 
tions, however painful, which are not vanquished by 
these serious but agreeable emotions, and by those 
soft reveries to which the surrounding tranquility in- 
vites the mind. The Solitude of retirement, and the 
awful silence of all nature, impress an idea of the hap- 
py contrast between simplicity and grandeur. Our 
feelings become more exquisite, and our admira- 
tion more lively, in proportion to the pleasures we 
receive. 

I had been, during the course of many years, famil- 
iar with the sublimest appearances of nature, when I 
saw, for the first time, a garden cultivated in the Eng- 
lish taste near Hanover ; and soon afterwards, I be- 
held one in the same style, but on a much larger 
scale, at Marienverdcr, about the distance of a league 
from the former. I was not, then, apprised of the 
extent of that art, which sports with the most un- 
grateful soil, and, by a new species of creation, con- 
verts even barren sandy mountains into fertile and 
smiling landscapes. This magick art makes an aston- 
ishing impression on the mind ; it excites in every 
hetkPtj not yet insensible to the delightful charms of 
cultivated nature, all trie pleasures which Solitude, 
] ural repose, and a seclusion from the haunts of men 
can procure. I cannot recollect a single day, during 
the early part of my residence at Hanover, without 
tears of gratitude and joy. Torn from the bosom of 
my country, from the embraces of my family, and 
driven from every thing that I held dear in life, ray 
mind was not susceptible of any other sentiments than 
those of the deepest melancholy. But when I entered 
into the little garden of my late friend M, be Huni- 
ber, near Hanover, I forgot, for the moment, both 
my country and my grief. 

The charm was new to my mind. I was not then 
apprised that t was possible, upon so small a stale, to 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART, 175 

imitate the enchanting variety and the noble simplicity 
of nature. I was not till then convinced that her as- 
pect alone was sufficient, at the first view, to oblite- 
rate all the oppression of the world, to excite in our 
breasts the purest luxury, to fill our minds with every 
sentiment that can create a fondness for life. I still 
bless the hour when I first learned this secret. 

This new re-union of art and nature, which was 
invented not in China but in England^ is founded upon 
a refined taste for the beauties of nature, confirmed by 
experience, and by the sentiments which a chaste 
fancy reflects upon a feeling heart. Hircrfeld, the 
great painter of nature, an amiable and sensible philo- 
sopher, the first German who, by his admirable theo- 
ries, introduced among us a knowledge of gardening, 
is become, by conferring this knowledge, one of the 
greatest benefactors to his country. 

There are, without doubt, many German-English 
gardens, so whimsically and ridiculously laid out, that 
they only excite emotions of pity and contempt. Who 
can forbear laughing to see forests of poplar trees, 
scarcely large enough to warm a chamber stove for a 
week ; mole-hills which they call mountains ; mena- 
geries of tame and savage animals, birds, and amphi- 
bious creatures, grinning in native grandeur upon tin ; 
bridges without number across a river which a couple 
of ducks would drink dry ; wooden fishes swimming 
in canals which the pump every morning supplies with 
water ? All this is certainly still less natural than the 
pitiful taste of our ancestors. But if, on the contra- 
ry, in the garden of M. Hinuber, at Marienverder, 
every look elevates my soul towards God, if every 
point of view affords to the soul sublime repose, if 
on every bank I discover scenes ever smiling and ever 
new, if my heart feels relief from the aspect of this 
enchanting place, shall I amuse myself by discussing, 
whether what I see might have been done in a differ* 



176 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

ent way, and permit the insipid pleasantries of cold 
and tasteless masters to diminish my pleasures ? 
Scenes of serenity, whether created by tasteful art 
or the hand of nature, always convey tranquility to 
the heart ; a kindness which it owes to the imagina- 
tion. If a soft silence breathe around, and every object 
is pleasant to my view ; if rural scenes absorb all my 
attention, and dissipate the grief that lies heavy on my 
heart ; if the loveliness ef Solitude enchants me, and; 
gradually subduing my soul, leaves it full of benevo- 
lence, love and content ; I ought to thank God for 
these powers of imagination which, although it has 
indeed frequently caused the trouble of my life, has 
always led me to some friendly rock, upon wmich I 
could hang, while I contemplated with greater com- 
posure the tempests I had escaped.* A celebrated 
English writer has said, that " Solitude, on the first 
w view of it, inspires the mind with terrour, because 
" every thing that brings with it the idea of privation, 
" is terrifick, and therefore sublime, like space, dark- 
a Bess, and silence. " In Switzerland, and especially 
xiear the Canton of Berne, the Alps have, at a distance, 

* A French winter has embellished this idea with all 
the riches of eloquence. " There is no mind of sensibili- 
H ty, which has not tasted, in the retreats of Solitude, 
w th*se delicious moments when man, flying from the 
" delusions of falsehood, enters into his own heart to seek 
a the 'sparks of truth I What pleasure, after having been 
a tossed, during many years, on the sea of life, to climb 
i( some friendly rock, and reflect in peace and safety on 
u the tempest and shipwrecks which ensued ! Happy the 
H man who can then forget the idle prejudices which oc- 
w cupy the mind : the miseries of humanity vanish from 
" his sight ; august truth mis his bosom with the purest 
** jays. It is only in these moments, and in those which 
«■ precede the dissolution of cur mortal frame, that man 

* can learn v/hat he is upon this earth, and what this 

* earth is to him." 



ON THE MIND ANB THE HEART. 177 

an astonishing grandeur of appearance ; but viewed 
nearer, they inspire images terrifick and sublime* 
That species of grandeur which accompanies the idea 
of infinity, charms the eye when seen at a proper dis- 
tance. The heart feels nothing but ravishment, while 
the eye observes from afar the uninterrupted chain of 
these immense mountains, these enormous masses, 
rising one above the other. The succession of soft 
and lively shades temper the impression, and give to 
this prodigious wall of rocks, more of the agreeable 
than the sublime. On the contrary, a mind of sensi- 
bility cannot take a near view of these mountains, 
without feeling an involuntary trembling. The eye 
looks with fear on their eternal snows, their deep de- 
scents, their obscure caverns, the torrents which 
precipitate themselves with resounding noise over their 
summits, forming innumerable cascades, the dark 
forests of fir with which their sides are overcharged, 
and the enormous fragments of rocks which the tem- 
pests have detatched from their foundations during the 
course of time. How my heart beat, when, for the 
first time, I climbed through a steep and narrow path, 
upon those sublime desarts, continually discovering 
new mountains rising over my head, while upon the 
least stumble, death menaced me in a thousand differ- 
ent shapes below ! But imagination soon begins to 
kindle, when you perceive yourself alone in the midst 
of all this grandeur of nature, and reflect from these 
heights on the nothingness of human power, and the 
weakness of the greatest monarchs ! 

The History of the Swiss evinces that the inhabi- 
tants of these mountains are not men of a degenerated 
cast, but that their sentiments are elevated, and their 
feelings warm. Their boldness and intrepidity is 
innate ; the spirit of liberty gives wings to their souls ; 
and they trample tyranny and tyrants under their feet. 
But the spirit of liberty is only to be found ia its ge- 



178 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

nuine refinement among the Alps ; for all the Swiss 
are not in reality free, although they have notions of 
liberty, love their country, and return their thanks to 
the«- Almighty for that happy peace which permits 
each individual to live quietly under his vine, and to 
enjoy the shade of his fig-tree. 

The Alps in Stvisserland are inhabited by a race of 
men, sometimes unsociable, but always good and ge- 
nerous. The severity of their climate renders them 
hardy and robust, while their pastoral life adds softnes 
to their characters. An Englishman has said, that he 
who never heard thunder in the Alps, cannot conceive 
4ny idea of the continuity of the lightning, the rolling 
and the burst of the thunder which roars round the 
horizon of these immense mountains. The inhabi- 
tants of the Alps therefore, who have never seen better 
bouses than their own cabins, or any other country 
than their native rocks, conceive every part of the 
universe to be formed of the same rough materials* 
and a scene of unceasing tempests. 

But Heaven is not always threatening ; the lightning 
docs not continually flash upon their eyes ; immedi- 
ately after the most dreadful tempests, the hemisphere 
clears itself by slow degrees, raid becomes serene* 
The heads and hearts of the Swiss are of a similar 
nature ; kindness succeeds to anger ; and generosity 
to the most brutal fury ; which might be easily prov- 
ed, not only from the records of history but from re- 
cent facts. One of the inhabitants of these stupendous 
mountains, General de Redin, born in the Canton 
of SchwitZ) was enrolled very early in life in the Swiss 
guards, and had attained the station of Lieutenant 
General ; but his long residence at Paris and Versail- 
les had not in any degree altered his character ; and 
he continued through life a Swiss. The orders issued 
by the Court of Ver^qiHefa in the year IT 64, for the 
regulation of the Swiss who were in the service of 



GN THE MIND AND THE HEART. 179 

that Court, occasioned great discontents in the Canton 
of Schnvitz. The citizens considered this innovation 
as extremely prejudicial to their ancient privileges, 
and they threw the blame of this measure upon Ge? 
neral Red in. At this crisis the wife of the Gene? 
ral, who resided on his estate, was exerting all her 
interest to raise recruits ; but the sound of the French 
drum was become disgusting to the ears of the citi- 
zens of the Canton, and they saw with indignation the 
white cockade placed in the hats of the deluded pea- 
sants. The Magistrate, apprehensive that this fer- 
mentation might ultimately cause some insurrection 
among the people, thought it his duty to prohibit Ma- 
dame de Redin from continuing to raise her levies. 
The lady required him to give a certificate in writing 
of this prohibition ; but the Magistrate was not at that 
moment inclined to act with this spirit against the 
interest of France ; and the wife of the General con- 
tinued to raise her recruits. This bold measure ir- 
ritated the inhabitants of the Canton ; they summon- 
ed a General Diet, and madame de Redin appeared 
before the four thousand. " The drum," said 
she, " shall never cease to beat, until you give me 3. 
" certificate, which may justify my husband to the 
" Court of France for not compleatmg the number of 
* his men." They granted her the certificate she 
demanded, and the General was at the same time 
enjoined to use his interest at the Court of France, for 
the service of his country. These measures being 
adopted, the Canton waited in anxious expectation of 
receiving satisfactory accounts from Paris ; but un- 
happily very dissatisfactory accounts arrived. The 
feelings of the inhabitants were irritated beyond res? 
traint ; and those who were possessed of credit and 
authority publickly maintained that the new regulation 
endangered both their liberties and their religion. 
The general discontent was instantly converted into 



180 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

universal fury. The Diet was again assembled, and 
it was publickly resolved not to furnish the King of 
France with any troops hereafter. The treaty of al- 
liance in 1713 was torn from the archieves of the coun- 
try, and General Repin was ordered to return im- 
mediately with the soldiers under his command, upon 
pain of perpetual exile. Rebin obtained the King's 
leave of absence for himself and his regiment ; and 
they returned to their ow r n country. The General 
entered Schnvitz, the metropolis of the Canton, at the 
head of his troops, with drums beating and colours 
flying. They marched towards the church ; Redin, 
placed the colours by the side of the great altar, fell 
upon his knees, and offered up his thanks to God. 
He then discharged to his soldiers the arrears of their 
pay, gave them their accoutrements and clothes, and 
with tears in his eyes, while they wept around him, 
took his leave. The fury of the populace seemed to 
increase, when they found themselves in possession of 
a man whom they considered as a perfidious wretch, 
a traitor who had favoured the new regulations at the 
Court of Versatile*) and who had conspired to give a 
mortal blow to the interests of his country. The Ge- 
neral Diet assembled, and Red in was summoned to 
disclose the manner in which these new regulations 
had passed, in order that they might know the terms 
on which they stood with France, and learn the der 
gree of offence the traitor had committed, so that 
they might afterwards grant him a pardon, or appor- 
tion his punishment. Repin, perfectly aware that 
under the real circumstances of the case, eloquence 
would be vainly exerted against minds heated in the 
cause, contented himself with saying roughly, and in 
few words, that all the world knew the manner in 
which things had passed, and that he was as innocent 
with regard to the new regulation as he was of his 
dismission. " The traitor, then, will not confess T- 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART\ 181 

exclaimed the most furious of the members ; « hang 
" him on the next tree — cut him to pieces." These 
menaces were instantly repeated by the whole as- 
sembly ; Re din, however continued perfectly tran- 
quil* A troop of furious peasants mounted the 
rostrum, while Redin stood by the side of the Ma- 
gistrates. It was at this time raining. A young 
man, the godson of Redin, held a fiarafi luie over his 
head. One of the enraged multitude with a blow of 
his stick, broke the ftaraphde to pieces, exclaiming, 
" Let the villain be uncovered." Rage swelled the 
bosom of the youth. " Ah ! ah !" said he, " I did 
r not know that my god-father had betrayed his coun- 
u try ; but since it is so, bring me a cord this mo- 
" ment, that I may strangle him." The Members 
of the Council formed a circle round the Genera!, 
and entreated him with uplifted hands to think of his 
danger ; to confess that he had not perhaps opposed 
the regulation with proper vehemence ; and to offer 
the sacrifice of his whole fortune as a reparation for 
the offence he had committed, on condition that they 
would spare his life. Redjn walked out of the circle 
with a grave and tranquil air, and made the sign of 
silence with his hand* The whole Assembly waited 
with impatience to hear the General confess ; and the 
greater number of the Members flattered him with 
the hopes of pardon, " My dear countrymen," said 
the General, u you are not ignorant that I have served 
" the King of France two and forty years. You 
" know, and many among you who were with me in 
* the service can bear witness of its truth, how fre- 
K quently I have appeared in the face of the enemy, 
" and the manner in which I have conducted n-n self 
" in several battles. I considered every engagement 
i( as the last day of my life. But here I protest, in 
" the presence of Almighty God, who knows all 
w hearts, who listens to my words, who is to judge us 

o 



18* THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

« all, tliat I never appeared before the enemy with a 
" conscience so tranquil, pure, and innocent ; and am 
" ready at this instant to yield up my life, if you 
" think proper to condemn. me for not confessing an 
ft infidelity of which I have not been guilty." 

The dignity with which the General delivered this 
declaration, and the rays of truth which beamed upon 
his countenance, calmed the fury of the assembly, 
and he was saved* But Redin and his wife soon 
afterwards quitted the canton. She entered into a 
religious convent at Uiu, and he retired into a deep 
cavern among the rocks, where he lived two years in 
Solitude. The fury of his countrymen, however, at 
length subsided ; he returned to the canton, and re* 
warded their ingratitude by the moist signal services. 
Every individual then recollected the integrity and 
magnanimity of the General ; and to compensate 
the injuries and injustice he had received, they elect* 
ed him Bailli, or first officer of the canton : nay, 
what very rarely happens, they afterwards elected 
him three times successively to this important 
dignity. 

This is the characteristick disposition of the people 
who inhabit the Alps ©f Swisserland ; alternately mild 
and violent ; following in the extreme the dictates of 
a bold and lively imagination. Their passions and 
affections experience the same vicissitudes as their 
clime. But I candidly acknowledge, that I would 
rather live in Solitude among the rocks of Uiu, than 
be perpetual Bailli of the Canton ofScmviTz. The 
continual view of the sublime desarts of the Alps may 
perhaps contribute to render the Swiss rude and 
unpolished ; but, as in every similar situation, their 
hearts are improved in kindness and good-nature, by 
the tranquility of their fields, and the smiling beauty 
of the scenery by which they are surrounded. The 
English artists acknowledge, that the face of nature 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 133 

In S^visscrland is too sublime and too majestick for the 
pencil to render a faithful representation of it. But 
what exquiste enjoyments must they not experience 
■upon those romantick hills, in those agreeable vallies, 
upon the happy borders of those still and transparent 
lakes,* i Ah ! it is there that nature may be closely- 
examined : it is there that she appears in her highest 
pomp and splendour. If the view of the oak, the 
elm, the dark firs which people these immense fo- 
rests, convey no pleasures ; if the sight of those 
majestick trees excites no pleasing emotions in your 
mind, there still remain the myrtle of Venus, the 
almond-tree, the jessamine, the pomegranate, and 

• * How I love to read in the Letters upon Swisser- 
land by the professor Meiners, with what amiable sen- 
sibility that philosopher seated himself upon the banks cf 
the Lake of Biel, and quietly resigned himself to all the 
emotions of his soul 1— -" When I am fatigued, " says M. 
Meiners to one of his friends at Gqttincen, " and 
w it pleuses my fancy to consider more attentively the 
" several objects which surround me, I seat myself upon 
11 the first bank, or the wall of a vine under which people 
" continually passs. I never indulge this disposition, 
" "without experiencing an inexpressible tranquility. The 
' l test time, it was about six o'clock while the sun was 
4i sinking behind the ridge of Juka. The dark gi>eeu 
" firs which grow almost alone to a certain height gn 
" the mountain ; the oaks of a brighter vendnre which 
u succeed them ; the vines, still livelier in their teints, 
Li in the middle of which I was seated : and a considera- 
" ble portion of the Lake, which by that means appeared 
a more extensive, was in the shade ; while the other 
i( part of the Lake, the opposite shore, Biel, andNicAw, 
" and the tops of the Glaciers wfcre still bfightei ed by 
" the last rays of the sun. Below, the bleating of the 
" flocks transported me in idea to the smiling plains of 
" Arcadia ; above I heard the hum of peasants, and of 
" fishermen, whose boats I could scarce discover ; with 
Ci the affecting rnurmer of the lake, gently rolling it* 
" waves against the rocks which over-hang its banks." 



184 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

those eminences covered with luxurious vines. Re- 
flect, that in no country of the globe nature is more 
rich and variegated in her appearance than in Swiss- 
erland, and that it was the landscape and the lake of 
Zurich which inspired the Idylls of the immortal 
Gessner, the most agreeable of all the poets of 
nature. 

These sublime beauties raise and fire the heart ; 
and operate upon the imagination in a much more 
Jively manner than even more agreeable scenes ; as a 
line night affords a more august and solemn spectacle 
than the finest day. In coming from PrescaTi, by 
the side of the small lake of Nemi, which lies in a 
deep valley so enclosed by mountains and forests that 
the winds never agitate its quiet surface, it is impos- 
sible not to exclaim with the English poet, that here— • 

" Black melancholy sits and round her thr&ws 
44 A death-like silence, and a dread refiose : 
" Her gloomy firesence saddens all the scene, 
4i Shades every flower, and darkens every green, 
44 Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, 
4< And breathes a brozvner horrour on the woods, 19 
Pope, Eloisa to Abelard, ver. 165. 

While the soul expands, and the mind be- 
comes serene and free, you suddenly discover from 
the garden of the Capuchins, near Albano, the little 
melancholy lake with all the mountains and forests 
which surround it, the castle of Gandolpho, with 
JPEEScAfi and all its rural villas on one side ; on the 
other, the handsome city of Albano, the village and 
castle of Rice j a and Geusano, with their hills deck- 
ed with vine-leaves ; below, the extensive plains of 
Campania, in the middle of which Rome, formerly 
the mistress of the universe, raises its majestic head ; ! 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 183 

and lastly, beyond all these objects, the hills of Tivo- 
Li, the Jppennines, and Mediterranean sea.* 

Thus the view of sublime or beautiful objects diffe- 
rently affect the heart : the sublime excite fear and 
terrour ; the beautiful create only soft and agreeable 
sensations. But both of them enlarge and aggrandize 
the sphere of the imagination, and enable us more 
satisfactorily to seek enjoyments within ourselves. 

To experience these pleasures, however, it is not 
necessary to seek the solitary retirements of Swisses- 
land and ZfALr. There is no person, who may not, 
by quietly traversing the mountains with his gun, and 
without running after poetic images, like Kleis?^ 
learn to feel how much the great scene of nature will 
influence the heart, when assisted by the powers of 
imagiation. The sight of an agreeable landscape, the 
various points of view which the spacious plains 
afford, the freshness of the zephyrs, the beauty of the 
sky, and the appetite which a long chace procures, 
will give feelings of health, and make tvery step seem 
too short. The privation of every object that can 
recal tire idea of dependence, accompanied by do- 
dornestick comfort, healthful exercise, and useful 
occupations, will add vigour to thought, give warmth 
to imagination, present the most agreeable and smil- 
ing images to the mind, and inebriate the heart with 

* A German Lady, who possesses a very lively imagina- 
tion, undertook a voyage to Italy for the re-establishment 
of her health. Her strength increased day after day. 
When she found hearself on the scile of Albano, above 
described, she endeavoured to express to her companions 
the emotions which the view of this scene had occasioned; 
but her feelings were so exquisite, that they deprived her 
•of the power of utterance, and she actually remained 
several days without being able to speak, 

t M. Kleist, a celebrated poet of Germany, distin- 
guished by his poem upon Spring. 

Q2 



186 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUBS 

the most delicious sensations. A man with a fine im- 
agination would be more happy in a dark prison than, 
without imagination, amidst the most magnificent 
scenery. But even to a mind deprived of this happy 
faculty, the tranquility of rural life, and the views of 
harvest, will alone perform miracles upon the heart. 
Who among us, alas ! has not experienced, in the 
Lours of languor and disgust, the powerful effects 
which a view of the enchanting pleasures enjoyed by 
the village rustick is capable of affording ? How 
fondly the heart partakes of all his joys I With what 
freedom, cordiality, and kindness, we take him by the 
hand, and listen to his plain unlettered tales ! How 
suddenly do we feel our bosoms interested in cytvy 
object that surrounds us ! How soon all the secret in- 
clinations of our souls are displayed, refined, and 
meliorated ! Rural scenes have a variety of pleasures 
for those who, buried in the sink of cities, have scarce- 
ly any knowledge of what pleasure is. 

A French officer on his return to his native country 
after a long absence, exclaimed, " It is only in rural 
" life that a man can truly enjoy the treasures of the 
" heart, himself, his wife, his children, and his friends. 
" The country has, in every respect, the greater ad- 
" vantage over the town. The air is pure, the pros- 
*' pects smiling, the walks pleasant, the living comfor- 

* table ; the manners simple, and the mmd virtuous. 
4t The passions unfold themselves without injury to 
M any person, The bosom inspired by the love of 
" liberty, feels itself dependent on Heaven alone. 
u Avaricious minds are continually gratified by the 

* endles gifts of nature ; the warrior may follow the 
" chace ; the voluptuary may cultivate the rich 
f 1 fruits of the earth ; and the philosopher indulge 

(i his contemplation at ease." Oh ! how strongly 

this writer moves and interests my heart, when he 
tells me, by this affecting passage of his, work, — m I 



GN THE MIND AND THE HEART. 187 

44 should prefer a residence in my native fields to all 
" others ; not because they are more beautiful, but 
• 4 because I was brought up there. The spot on 
44 which we pass our earliest days possesses a secret 
¥ charm, an inexpressible enchantment, superior to 
" any other enjoyment the world affords ; and the 
44 loss of which no other country can compen- 
w sate : the spot where the gambols of my infant 
44 days were played ; those happy days which passed 
f without inquietude or cares. The finding of a bird's 
4i nest then filled my bosom with the highest joy, 
44 What delight have I felt from the caresses of a 
44 partridge, in making it peck at me, in feeling its 
* 4 little heart beat against my hand i Happy he who 
H returns to the place of his first attachment \ that 
44 place where he fondly fixed his love on all around 
44 him ; where every object appeared amiable to his 
44 eyes ; the fertile fields in which he used to run and 
44 exercise himself \ the orchards which he used to 
44 pillage*." 

These delightful sentiments engrave indelibly on 
cur heart the remembrance of our infant residence in 
the country, of those happy times which we passed 
with so much pleasure in the charming Solitudes of 
pur native country. Thus, at every period of our 
(existence, and in every place, the freedom and tranqui- 
lity of a country life will induce us to exclaim with 
the sacred orator, " How happy is the wise and vir- 
44 tuotis man, who knows how to enjoy tranquility 
44 with true dignity and perfect ease, independent of 
44 every thing around him 1 How preferable is the 
44 happy calm he theie tastes to the deafening cla- 

* To tliis passage, in the French translation of this 
work, is subjoined the following note : — " Not knowing 
44 the traveller who is here alluded to, we beg his excuse 
44 for having ventured to translate it into Frmch from the 
44 text in German*' 



K 



188 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

« mour, to the false joys and dazzling splendour of 
« the fashionable world ! What refined, noble, gene- 
** rous sentiments rise and unfold themselves in 
u retirement, which, during the din of business and 
" the dissipations of pleasure, he concealed at the 
u bottom of the soul, fearful of the contemptuous 
" sneer of wicked and unthinking minds." 

O ! my beloved Zolitkofer*, \ have felt in the 
pleasures of a retired domestick life the truth of those 
doctrines which you announced to us at Leipsick ; 
those useful doctrines which do not inculcate into the 
mind a cold and sterile theology, but wise and virtuous 
precepts which warm and animate the heart. I have 
seen, as you described, that in the bowers of retire- 
ment a man of business may forget his^bickerings and 
painful altercations ; that if he cannot banish them 
from his mind, he may drown his cares in the bosom 
of friendship ; that his heart will dilate to the charms 
of consolation and hope ; that his countenance will 
brighten, and all his pains and disquietudes suspend 
their rage until he has gained sufficient strength to 
support them, or prepared proper remedies to drive 
them quite away. I have observed the man of learn- 
ing in retirement abandon the thread of his laborious 
researches, retreat from the labyrinths of study, and 
find in the enjoyments of innocence, and the noble 
simplicity of his domesticks, more truth and tranquili- 
ty, more aliment for the heart and information for the 
mind, than in all the precepts of art and erudition. I 
have observed every one there to obtain the portion of 
praise and approbation which he merits, and that he 
obtains them from a person whose praise and appro- 
bation it is his utmost ambition to acquire. I have 
seen the unfortunate relieved, the wretched made hap- 
py, the wanderer put into his right way ; I have seen, 

* A celebrated preacher in Germany* 



©N THE MIND AND THK HEART. 189 

in short, every body thus find by degrees satisfaction 
and content. 

Sometimes, indeed, the oalm of rural life, and the 
view of nature's charms, inspires a species of soft and 
tranquil melancholy. The noisy pleasures of the 
world then appear insipid, and we taste the charms of 
Solitude and repose with increased delight. The hap- 
py indolence peculiar to Italians, who, under the plea- 
sures of a clear unclouded sky, are always poor but 
never miserable, contributes greatly to improve the 
heart. The mildness of their climate, the fertility of 
their soil, their religious peaceful and contented dispo- 
sitions compensate for every thing. Doctor MooRE y 
an English traveller, of whose works I am extremely 
fond, says, that ■" the Italians are the greatest loungers 
" in the world : and while walking in the fields, or 
w stretched in the shade, seem to enjoy the serenity 
" and genial warmth of their climate with a degree of 
" luxurious indulgence peculiar to themselves. With- 
" out ever running into the daring excesses of the 
" English, or displaying the frisky vivacity of the 
" French, or the invincible phlegm of the German, the 
" Italian populace discover a species of sedate sen si? 
" bility to every source of enjoyment, from which, 
" perhaps, they derive a greater degree of happiness 
" than any of the others, 55 

Under this pleasing privation of those objects which 
afflict and torment the heart, it is in truth almost im- 
possible for the mind to avoid an occasional indulgence 
of agreeable chimeras and romantick sentiments ; but, 
notwithstanding all these disadvantages, this condition 
has its fair side. Romantick speculation may lead the 
mind into extravagant resolutions and erroneous sys- 
tems, may frequently foment base, contemptible pas- 
sions, habituate the mind to a light and unsubstantial 
mode of thinking, prevent it from exerting its faculties 
with activity and ardour to rational ends, and obscure 



130 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

that prospect of happiness which a life of simplicity 
and moderation presents to our view. The soul also 
may quit with regret the ideal world on which it dwells 
with such fond delight ; and perhaps these illusions 
also may not only impede the discharge of the ordina- 
ry duties of life, but prevent the mind from tasting any 
of its pleasures. It is certain, however, that roman- 
tick sentiments do not always render the mind unhap- 
py. Who, alas ! has ever realised the happiness he 
has frequently been enabled to enjoy by the pleasures 
of imagination ? 

EossEAu, in his youth, was a great reader of ro- 
mances ; and being soon hurried away by the love of 
those imaginary objects, with which this species of 
reading and the fertility of his own imagination filled 
his mind, he disregarded every thing by which he was 
surrounded. This was the source of that taste for 
Solitude which he preserved to the most advanced pe- 
riod of his life ; a taste, in appearance, dictated by 
melancholy and misanthropy — but which he attribut- 
ed to the irresistible impulses of a heart too kind, too 
tender, too affectionate ; and not being able elsewhere 
to gratify his feelings by sentiments sufficiently warm 
and animated, he was constrained to live on fiction. 

There are wanderings of the imagination which 
may be indulged, in Solitude, to gratify the feelings 
of the heart, without doing any injury either to our 
sentiments or sensations. In every situation of my 
life, I have always found some individual to whom 
my heart has fondly attached itself. Oh ! if my 
friends, who I have left in Swisserland, knew how fre- 
quently, during the silence of the night, I pass with 
them those hours which should be sacred to sleep ; 
if they knew that neither time nor absence can efface 
from my mind the remembrance how dear they have 
been to me from my earliest youth to the present mo- 
ment 5 if they knew how speedily they make me for- 



ON THE MINE AND THE HEART* 191 

get misfortune, they would, perhaps, rejoice to find 
that I still live among them in imagination, although 
I may be dead to them in reality* 

Oh ! let not a solitary man, whose heart is warmed 
by sentiments noble and refined, ever be thought un* 
happy ! He, of whom the stupid vulgar so freely 
complain ; he, whom they conclude to be the victim 
of every melancholy idea, of every sombrous reflec- 
tion, frequently tastes of inexpressible pleasures. The 
French conceived the good Rosseau to be of a gloo- 
my disposition. He certainly was not so during a 
great portion of his life ; he certainly was not so 
when he wrote to M* de Malherbe, the chancellor's 
son, " I cannot express to you, sir, how much I have 
" been affected by perceiving that you esteem me the 
" most unhappy of mankind. The publick will, 
" without doubt, judge of men as you do ; and this is 

* the cause of my adliction. Oh ! that the fate which 
* c I have experienced, were but known to the whole 
*' universe 1 that every man would endeavour to fol- 
" low my example : peace would then reigh thrcugh- 
w out the world ; men would no longer dream of ca- 
" lumniating each other ; and there would no longer 
" be wicked men, when none would find it their inter- 
" est to be wicked. But in what could I, in short, 

* find enjoyment, when I was alone ? — In myself, in 
" the whole universe, in every thing that does, in eve- 
" ry thing that can exist therein ; in ail that the eye 
M finds beautiful in the real world, or the rmagiia 

*< in the intellectual. I collected about me every thing 
H that is flattering to the heart ; my desires were the 
^ rule of my pleasures. No ! the most voluptuous 
" have never experienced equal delights ; and I have 
" always enjoyed my chimeras much more than if 
t £ they had been realised," 

There is, undoubtedly, a high degree of rhapsody 
in these expressions ; but, oh ! ye stupid vulgar, who 



192 • THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

would not prefer the warm wanderings of Rosseau's 
mind to your cold understandings ? who would not 
voluntarily renounce your empty discourses, all your 
felicities, urbanities, noisy assemblies, pastimes ancj, 
prejudices ? who would not prefer a. quiet and con* 
tented life, in the bosom of a happy family ? who 
would not more willingly seek, in the silence of the 
woods, upon the delightful borders of a still lake,those 
pleasures of simple nature which leave so delightful 
an impressions, those joys so pure, so affecting, so 
different from your own ? 

Eclogues are fictions ; but they are fictions of the 
most natural and agreeable kind, the purest and most 
sublime descriptions of rural happiness. 

If you are inclined to taste of real pleasures, you 
must seek them in retirement, where the soul feels 
itself altogether disengaged from the torments and 
oppression of the world ; where she no longer feels 
those artificial wants which only contribute to render 
her more unhappy, whether she is capable of gratify- 
ing them, or seeks hopelesly to indulge them ; where 
alone she preserves her refinement and simplicity. 
The man who neither sees nor hears those things 
which may affect the heart, who content with little is 
satisfied with all, breathes nothing but love and 
innocence, and perceives the golden age of the 
poets revived, of which the worldly minded man so 
unjustly regrets the loss. Serenity, love, and a taste 
for the beauties of nature, were not advantages pecu- 
liar to the woods of Arcadia : we may all live in An* 
cadia if we please. The feelings of the heart, the in- 
nocent pleasure we derive from admiring a meadow 
covered with Rowers, a crystal spring, and a pleasant 
shade, afford universal enjoyment. 

Pope ascribes the origin of poetry to the age that 
immediately succeeded the creation. The first em- 
ployment of mankind w r as the care of flocks, and there? 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 193 

fore the most ancient sort of poetry was, probably, 
pastoral. It is natural to imagine that anciently 
shepherds must have endeavoured to divert the happy 
leisure of their solitary and sedentary life ; and in 
such a situation what diversion could be more agreea- 
ble than singing ? and in their songs what could be 
more natural than to celebrate their own felicity ? 
Such was probably, in the opinion of Pope, the origin 
of pastoral* ; descriptions of the calmness and tran- . 
quility with which the life of a shepherd was attended, 
and designed, to create in our bosoms a love and 
esteem for the virtues of a former age. 

Goodness communicates itself by means of these 
happy fictions, and we bless the poet, who, in the 
ecstacy of his own felicity, endeavours to render 
others as happy as himself. Sicily and Zurich have 
produced two of these benefactors to mankind. The 
mind never beholds nature under a more beautiful 
aspect, we never breathe a purer air, the heart never 
beats so tenderly, the bosom never feels more re- 
fined delight, than when we read the Idylls of Theo- 
critus Gessner* ; and it is u\y peculiar gratifica- 
tion, my dear Gessner, when I recal to mind the 
pleasures I have received in our correspondence. 

* Perhaps no writer throughout Europe has more ju- 
diciously criticised the Idylls of Gessner than the in- 
comparable Blair in his " Lectures on Rhetoric and 
Belles Letters," where he says, " Of all the model 
" M. Gessner, a Poet of Swisserlancl, has been the most 
w successful in his pastoral compositions,, He has in 
" duced into his Idylls (as he entitles them) many 
" ideas. His rural scenery is often striking, and I 
" ciiptions are lively. He presents pastoral <»• 
" with all the embellishments of which it is lus< 
u but without any excess of refinement. Whatf. 
" chief merit of this poet, is, that he writes 
" and has enriched the subject of his h !j 
H which give rise to much tender sentiment. 1 
" domestic felicity are beautifully painted. The 

R 



154 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

It is by these easy and simple modes that the beau- 
ties of nature operate upon the heart, in aid of the 
imagination ; that rural life inspires the soul with the 
mildest sentiments, and that Solitude leads us to hap* 
piness. The mind, indeed, drawn away by these 
agreeable images, often resigns itself too easily to ro«? 
man tick ideas ; but they frequently give birth to fancies 
which amend the heart without doing any injury to 
nderstandinp;, while the happy fictions, and most 
sgteeable remembrances spread their flowers along 
the thorny paths of life. 

e heart frequently feels no repose, the highest 
happiness on earth, except in Solitude : but the tenft 
t; repose" does not always signify sloth and indolence. 
The transition from that which is painful to that which 
is pleasant, from the restraints of business to the free- 
dom of philosophy, may also be called repose. It 
was from this idea that P. Scipio said., that he Wfi's 
never less idle than in the hours of liesure, and never 
less alone than when done. To strong energetic 
minds, liesure and Solitude are not a state of torpidity, 
but a new incentive to thought and action ; and, whesi 
they rejoice that the happy completion of one labour 
enables them immediately to commence another, it is 
for the heart and not for the mind that they ask repose. 

It is but too true, alas ! that he who seeks for a si- 
tuation exempt from all inquietude follows a chimera, 
lie who is inclined to enjoy life, must not aspire to 
repose as an end^ but only as a means of re-animating 
his activity. He must, therefore, prefer such em- 

* affection of husbands and wives, of parents and children, 
" of brothefs and sisters, as well as of lovers, are display- 
11 ed in a pleasing and touching manner. From not un- 
" derstanding the language in which Mr. Gessner 
" writes, I can be no judge of the poetry of his style ; 
" but, in the subject and conduct of his pastorals, he ap= 
" pears to me to have outdone all the moderns." 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 195 

ployments as are best suited to the extent and nature 
of his capacity, and not those which promise compen- 
sation and enjoyment without pain and labour, which 
leave one portion of the faculties inert, steep the senses 
in forgetfulness, and promise pleasures and advantages 
which require no exertions to attain. 

Repose is not to he found in indolence, but by taking 
immediate advantage of the first impulse to action* 
If the misfortunes of those we love always make us un- 
happy ; if the grief of those whom we observe under suf- 
ferings tear our hearts ; if the acute feelings of com- 
passion for the unfortunate, poison all our pleasures, 
envelope the appearances of the world in shades of the 
darkest melancholy, render our existence painful, our 
faculties incapable of exertion, and deprive us even of 
ability to practise the virtues which we feel ; if we 
for months and years vainly endeavour to deliver our- 
selves from the most cruel sufferings, we must then 
absolutely fly to Solitude. But oh ! may the Beau- 
ty which accompanies our retreat, be an Angel of 
Virtue, who, in our descent to the vale of. death, will 
conduct and support us by her wisdom in a noble and 
sublime tranquility. 

Amidst the concatenation of passions and misfor- 
tunes, of which I was the sport and victim, I knew 
no hours more happy than those in which I forgot the 
world and was forgotten by it. Those happy hours I 
always found in the silence of the groves. All that 
oppressed my heart in pubiick life, all that in the vor- 
tex of the world only inspired me with disgust, fear 
or constraint, then fled far away. I admired the si- 
lence of surrounding nature, and, while I enjoyed the 
scene, the softest and most delicious sensations filled 
my breast. 

How often in the inebriety of pure and ineffable de- 
light, have I, on the approach of spring, admired the 
magnificent valley, where the ruins of the residence of 



196 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

Rodolpho de Hapsburg rises upon the side of a hill 
crowned with woods, whose variegated foliage pre- 
sents all the hues which verdure can produce ! There 
I beheld the Aar descend in a torrent from the lofty 
mountains, sometimes forming itself into a bason en- 
■ iosed by steep banks, sometimes precipitating itself 
through narrow passages across the rocks, then wind- 
ing its course quietly and majestically through the 
middle of smiling and fertile plains, whilst on the 
ther side the Ruffs, and lower down the Limmat 
ring the tribute of their streams, and peaceably unite 
with the waters of the Aar. In the midst of this rich 
and verdant carpet, I beheld the Royal Solitude where 
the remains of the Emperour Albert the first re- 
pose in silence, with those of many Princes of the 
House of Austria, Counts, Knights, and Gentlemen y 
killed by the Swiss. At a distance, I discovered the 
long valley, where lie the ruins of the celebrated city 
of Vindonissa*, upon which I have frequently sat and 
reflected on the vanity of human greatness.. 

* Vindonissa was a very large and well fortified Roman 
village, which served as a fortress to the Emperours, 
against the irruptions of the Germans. In this place, 
they continually 'kept a very numerous garrison to over- 
awe those dangerous neighbours, who frequently establish- 
ed themselves on the borders of the Rhine, and pillaged 
the plains of the Aar, notwithstanding the fortresses the 
Romans had erected on the banks of that river. The Em- 
perour Constantine Chlorus defeated the Germans 
in the year 20/ , between the Rhine and the Aar ; but at 
the beginning of the fourth century, the Romans lost all 
their power in that country, and Vindonissa was taken 
and destroyed by the Germans. It appears, indeed, that 
it was rebuilt ;" for the Episcopal chair was, during the 
reign of the French Emperours, established in this city, 
but, in consequence of being again destroyed, was towards 
the year 579 removed to Constantia. It was among the 
remains of this celebrated city, that the Counts Win- 
lich and ALTF.MBERG dwelt, in the tenth century. Of 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 197 

Beyond this magnificent country, ancient castles 
raise their lofty heads upon the hills, and the far dis- 
tant horizon is terminated by the romantick and sub- 
lime summits of the Alps. In the midst cf all this 
grand scenery, my eyes were involuntarily cast down 
into the deep valley immediately below me, and con- 
tinued fixed upon the little village where I first drew 
my breath. I traced ail the houses, and every win- 
dow of the house which I had inhabited. When I 
compared the sensations I then felt, with those which 
I had before experienced, I exclaimed to myself—* 
u Why, alas ! does my soul thus contract itself, when 
H surrounded by so many objects capable of inspiring 
a the subiimest sentiments ? Why does the season, 
" so lively and serene, appear to me so turbulent and 
M dismal ? Why do I feel, on casting my eyes below, 
* s so much uneasiness and disgust, when but a mo- 
" ment ago, on viewing those romantick objects, I 
" felt my heart expand with tranquility and love, par- 
il doned all the errours of misguided judgement, and 
" forgot the injuries I have received ? Why are that 
" little knot of men, who are assembled under my 
l i feet, so fretful and discordant ? Why is a virtuous 
" character so horrid to their sight ? Why is he who 
c; governs so imperious, and he who is governed so 
" abject ? \y liy is there, in this place, so little liber- 
" ty and courage ? Why are there so few among 
" them who know themselves ? Why is one so proud 
" and haughty, another so mean and groveling ? — 
*< Why, in short, among beings who are by nature 
" equal, does pride and envy so egregiously prevail ; 
" while they perceive the natives of these groves 
" perch without distinction upon the highest and the 

all this grandeur, the ruins only are now to be seen ; be- 
low which, near the castles of Windich and Altembergj 13 
the little village of Brugg, where I was born. 

R 2 



198 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

li lowest boughs, and unite their songs to celebrate 
" the praises of the Creator :" - Having finished my 
soliloquy, I descended from my mountain, satisfied 
and peaceable, made my profound reverences to mes- 
sieurs the Burgomasters, extended my hand with cor- 
diality to every one of my inferiors, and preserved the 
happiest tranquility ; until, by mixing with the world, 
the sublime mountain, the smiling valley, and the 
friendly birds, vanished from my mind. 

Thus rural Solitude dissipates all those ideas which 
displease us in the society of men, changes the bitter- 
est feelings into the sweetest pleasures, and inspires an 
ecstacy and content which the votaries of the world 
can never experience. The tranquility of nature si- 
lences every criminal inclination in the corrupted heart ; 
renders us blithe, amiable, open, and confident ; and 
strengthens our steps in the paths of virtue, provided 
we direct the passions to their proper end, and that an 
overheated imagination does not fabricate fancied woes. 

The attainment of all these advantages is, without 
doubt, a task rather too difficult to perform in the Sol- 
itude of cities. It appears easy indeed to retire to our 
apartment, and raise our minds by silent contempla- 
tion above the consideration of those objects by which 
we are surrounded. But few persons enjoy sufficient 
opportunities to do this ; for within doors, a thousand 
things may occur to interrupt the course of our reflec- 
tions ; in the streets, and in company, a thousand cross 
accidents may happen to confound our vain wisdom ; 
and peevish painful sensations will soon aggravate the 
heart and weaken the mind, when not upheld by ob- 
jects sufficiently affecting. 

Rosseau was always extremely unhappy at Paris.* 

* I can truly say, that all the time I lived at Paris, 
was only employed in seeking the means of being able to 
live out of it. 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 199 

This extraordinary genius, indeed, wrote his immor- 
tal works while he resided in the metropolis : but the 
moment he quitted his house, his mind was bewilder- 
ed by a variety of opposite sentiments, his ideas aban- 
doned him ; and the brilliant writer, the profound 
philosopher, he who was so intimately acquainted 
with all the labyrinths of the human heart, became al- 
most a child. 

In the country, we leave home with greater safety, 
cheerfulness and satisfaction. The solitary man, if 
tired with meditating hi his study, has only to open 
his door and walk abroad ; tranquility of mind attends 
his steps, and pleasure presents herself to his view at 
every turn. He extends his hand with cordiality to 
every man, for he loves and is beloved by every man 
he meets : he is under no dread of experiencing the 
disdain of an imperious Countess or a haughty Baron, 
proud of their titles i no monied upstart drives over 
him with his coach. Frontless vice dares not venture, 
on the protection of musty title deeds, nor the power 
of a weighty purse, to offer an indignity to modest 
virtue. 

But in Paris, as well as in every other city, a man 
who withdraws himself from the busy scenes of life, 
will never feel such sentiments as these, while he lives 
in peace with his own heart, and his nerves are not 
weakened or unstrung. It is these defects that ren- 
der us the sport of men's unworthy passions ; for to 
a man of weak nerves, every object is irritating and 
displeasing. 

Our days, even under the languors of a weak con- 
stitution, and surrounded by the most unpleasant ob- 
jects, pass quietly away in the most active scenes of 
life, provided we are at peace with ourselves. Our pas- 
sions are the gales, by the aid of which man ought to 
s.teer his course across the ocean of life ; for it is the 
passions, alone ? which give motion to the soul :— but 



200 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

when they become impetuous, the vessel is in danger, 
and runs a-ground. Pain and grief find no entrance 
into those bosoms that are free from remorse. The 
virtuous forget the past, form no idle speculations on 
the future, and do not refine away their happiness by 
thinking that what is good may still be better. Every 
thing is much better than we imagine* The anxious 
wishes of an ardent mind are seldom satisfied ; for 
with such characters fruition is indeed frequently ac- 
companied with discontent. The streams of content 
must flow from ourselves, taking its source from a de- 
liberate disposition to learn what is good, and a deter- 
mined resolution to seek for and enjoy it, however 
small the portion may be. 

To acquire that happy tranquility which men ex- 
pect to find in Solitude, it is not sufficient to regard 
every object that presents itself to their view, with su- 
pineness or surprise. He who, without employment, 
without having a plan of conduct previously digested 
and arranged, hopes for happiness in Solitude, will find 
himself to yawn at his cottage in the country, just as 
often as he did at his mansion in town ; and would do 
much better to employ himself in hewing wood, the 
whole day, than to loiter about in boots and spurs.—* 
But he who, living in the most profound Solitude, 
keeps himself continually employed, will acquire, by 
means of labour, true tranquility and happiness. 

Petrarch would have found this tranquility in his 
Solitude at Vaucluse, but that his heart sighed so in- 
cessantly for his beloved Laura. He was, however, 
perfectly acquainted with the art of vanquishing him- 
self. " I rise," says he, " at midnight ; I go out by 
c - c break of day. I study in the fields, as well as in 
« my chamber. I read, I write, I think. I endea- 
« vour to conquer the least disposition to indolence ; 
u and drive away sleep, effeminacy, and sensuality. 
£ I traverse, from morning till night, the barren 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 201 

" mountains, the humid vallies, and the deep caverns. 
" I walk, accompanied only by my cares, along the 
" banks of my river* I do not meet a man to seduce 
" me from my path ; men daily become less annoy- 
ik ing to me : for I place them either far before or 
" much behind me. I moralize on the past and delib- 
" erate on the future. I have found an excellent ex- 
" pedient to induce a separation from the world. I 
u attach myself to the place of my residence ; and I 
" am persuaded that I could form th&t attachment in 
" anyplace except at Avignon. In my present resi- 
" dence, atVaucluse, I find Athens, Rome or Flor- 
u ence, according as the manners of the one or of the 
" other best ple^e the disposition of my mind. — 
"■ Here I enjoy all my friends, as well those with 
" whom I have lived, as those who have entered the 
« vale of death before me, and whom I only know by 
» their good works." 

When we are thus resolved, and find resources like 
these within our minds, Solitude enables us to accom- 
plish whatever we please. PeVrarcH) however, was 
not incMned to improve the opportunities which Soli- 
tude afforded, because he was in love. His heart, 
therefore, was a stranger to repose ; and repose is, 
certainly, as Lav aver has observed, the means of be- 
ing always happy, and of doing every thing well. 

Employment will produce content in the most 
frightful desarts. The Dairo of Japan banishes the 
grandees of the empire, who incur his displeasure, in- 
to the island of Fatsisio. The shores of this island, 
which was formerly inhabited, are of a surprising 
height. It has no haven, is entirely barren, and its ac- 
cess so difficult that the exiles and their provisions 
are obliged to be landed by" means of cranes. The 
sole employment of these unhappy men, in this mel- 
ancholy residence, is to manufacture silk stuffs and 
gold tissues, which are so highly beautiful that they 



202 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

are not suffered to be purchased by strangers. I con- 
fess that I should not like to fall under the displeasure 
of the Emperour of Japan ; but I nevertheless con- 
ceive, that there is more internal tranquility in the isl- 
and of Fatsisio than in the bosoms of the Emperour 
and his whole court. 

Every thing which conveys a spark of comfort to 
the soul of man, should be anxiously preserved : but, 
without seeking to raise an eternal flame, it is only ne- 
cessary to take czve that the last spark be not extin- 
guished. It is by this means, that we acquire in the 
country that quietude which flies the tumults of the 
town, and those advantages of which the wordly-mind- 
ed have no idea. 

What epicure ever enjoyed so much satisfaction in 
the midst of ail his splendid entertainment, as Rous- 
seau experienced in his frugal repasts 1 t4 I returned 
; slowly home," says he, " my mind in some degree 
fatigued, but with a contented heart. I experience, 
on my return, the most agreeable relief, in resigning 
myself to the impression of objects, without exer- 
cising my thoughts, indulging my imagination, or 
doing any thing but feeling the peace and happiness 
of my situation. I find my cloth ready spread on 
my table on my lawn. I eat my supper with appe- 
tite in the company of my little family. No trace 
of servitude or dependence interrupts the love and 
kindness by which we are united : my dog himself 
is my friend, and not my slave : we have always the 
same inclinations ; but he has never obeyed me. — My 
gaiety through the whole evening testified that I had 
lived alone ail the day : I was very different when I 
had seen company ; I was seldom contented with 
others, and never with myself ; and at night sat 
either grumbling or silent. This remark is my 
house-keeper's : and since she mentioned it to me, 
I have found it invariably true from my own obser- 



<#N THE MIND AND THE HE'ART. £03 

" vations* At length, after having taken a Tew turns 
" in my garden, or sung some air to the music of my 
(i spinnet, I experience upon my pillow a repose both 
tf of body and mind a hundred times more sweet than 
" sleep itself." 

Nature and a tranquil heart are to the Divinity a 
more beautiful and magnificent temple than the 
church of St. Peter at Rome, or the cathedra! of St. 
Paul in London. The most savage desart is filled with 
the immensity of the Almighty, and his presence 
sanctifies the solitary hill upon which a pure and 
peaceful heart offers up its sacrifice to him. Pie 
reads the hearts of all his creatures ; he every where 
hears the prayers of those whose invocations are sin- 
cere. Whether we rise, or whether we descend, we 
do not find a grain of dust that is not filled with his 
spirit. But there are no places which inspire ideas 
more religious than those happy scites which, uniting 
the most sublime and beautiful appearances of nature, 
ravish the heart, and impress it with those voluptuous 
sensations which excite in the mind the sentiments of 
love, admiration, and repose. 

I never recall to my memory without feeling the 
softest emotions, the sublime and magnificent scene 
which I enjoyed in the year 1775, when, during a fine 
day, accompanied by my friend Lavater, I ascended 
the terrace of the house he then inhabited, the house 
in which he was born and educated. In whatever di- 
rection I turned my eyes, whether walking or sitting, 
I experienced nearly the same sensation which Bry- 
done describes himself to have felt upon the top of 
^Ltna*. I included in one view the city of Zurich, the 

* Brydone says, " In proportion as we are raised above 
# the habitations of men, all low and vulgar sentiments 
*< aye left behind ; and the soul, in approaching the sethe- 
cc rial regions, shakes off its earthly affections, and already 
n contracts something of their invariable purity*" 



2G4 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

smiling country which surrounds it, its tranquil and 
expanded lake, the high mountains, covered with frost 
and snow, lifting their majestic heads to Heaven. A 
divine tranquility surrounded me while I beheld this 
scene. 

Upon this terrace I discovered the mystery, which 
enabled Lavater, while he enjoyed so delicious a sen? 
sation of his existence and his powers, to walk calmly 
through the streets of Zurich, exposed to the observa- 
tions of the criticks of ihat city, who were in the daily 
practice of venting their abuse against him, and of 
whom he so humbly asked pardon for the innocence 
of his life, which at least, according to the laws, the- 
were unable to destroy. 

Upon this terrace I discovered the cause of his still 
cherishing with such unfeigned tenderness his impla- 
cable enemies, those learned critics of Zurich whose 
rage the sound of his name v/as sufficient to excite ; 
who felt with the greatest repugnance every thing that 
was praise-worthy in his character, and exposed with 
the highest feeling of\joy those foibles and defects from 
which no man is entirely free ; who could not listen 
without fury when those merits which he evidently 
possessed were praised, or the demerits which they 
were unable to prove were extenuated ; who rejected 
with aversion all the truths which appeared to be in 
his favour, and eagerly listened, with an air of triumph, 
to all the calumnies which tended to his dishonour ; 
who are humbled by his glory, as much as they can 
possibly be degraded by their own infamy ; and who 
have the accomplishment of his disgrace as much at 
heart as their own personal advantage ; in whose 
breasts Layater's happiness becomes a source of 
misery, and his misfortunes a fountain of joy ; who af- 
fect silence on the virtues they are conscious he pos- 
sesses, and loudly aggravate defects which they indus- 
triously circulate by every possible means, rather ii> 




ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 205 

deed to their own injury, than to his disgrace, for by 
these means they frequently increase the glory which 
they seek to extinguish ; who insidiously desire the 
impartial stranger to see the man, and judge for him- 
self ; and have, almost uniformly, the mortification of 
perceiving, that Lavater is found to possess a cha- 
racter diametrically opposite to that which the enven- 
omed tongues and pens of his enemies at Zurich have 
represented. 

At the village of Richterswyl, a few leagues from 
Zurich,' in a situation still more delicious and serene 
than even that of Lavater, surrounded by every ob- 
ject the most smiling, beautiful and sublime that Swis- 
serland presents, dwells a celebrated physician. His 
soul is as tranquil and sublime as the scene of nature 
which surrounds him. His habitation is the temple of 
health, friendship, and every peaceful virtue. The 
village is situated on the borders of the lake, at a place 
where two projecting points of land form a natural 
bay of nearly half a league. On the opposite shores, 
the lake, which is not quite a league in extent, is en- 
closed, from the north to the east by pleasant hills, 
covered with vine leaves, intermixed with fertile 
meadows, orchards, fields, groves and thickets, with 
little villages, churches, villas, and cottages, scattered 
\ip and down the scene. 

A wide and magnificent amphitheatre, which no 
artist has yet ventured to paint except in detached 
scenes, opens itself from the east to the south. The 
view towards the higher part of the lake, which on this 
side is four leagues long\ presents to the eye points of 
land, distant islands, the little town of Rapperswil 
built on the side of a hill, the bridge of which extends 
itself from one side of the lake to the other. Beyond 
the town, the inexhaustible valley rises in a half cir- 
cle to the sight* Upon the first ground-plot is a peak 
of land, with hills about half a league distant from each 

s 



296 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

other ; and behind these rise a range of mountains, 
covered with trees and verdure, and interspersed with 
villages and detached houses. In the back ground are 
discovered the fertile and majestick Alps, twisted one 
among the other, and exhibiting alternate shadows of 
the lightest and darkest azure. Behind these Alps? 
rocks, covered with eternal snows, rear their heads to 
the clouds. Towards the south, the opening of the 
amphitheatre is continued by a new chain of moun- 
tains. A scene thus enriched, always appears new, 
romantick, and incomparable. 

The mountains extend themselves from the south 
to the west : the village of Richterswyl is situated a$ 
their feet, upon the banks of the lake : deep forests 
cf firs cover the summit, and the middle is filled with 
fruit trees, interspersed with rich fallows and fertile 
pastures, among which, at certain distances, a few 
houses are scattered.- The village itself is neat, the 
streets are paved, and the houses, built of stone, aire 
painted on the outsides. Around the village are walks, 
formed on the banks of the lake, or cut through shady 
forests to the hills ; and on every side, scenes, beauts 
ful or sublime, strike the eye while they ravish the 
heart of the admiring traveller. He stops, and con- 
templates with eager joy these accumulated beauties ; 
his bosom swells with excess of pleasure ; and his 
breath continues for a time suspended, as if fearful of 
interrupting the fulness -of his delight. Every acre of 
this charming country is in the highest degree of cul- 
tivation and improvement. No part of it is suffered 
to lie untilled ; every hand is at work ; and men, wo- 
men, and children, from infancy to age, are all usefully 
employed. 

The two houses of the physician are each of them 
surrounded by a garden ; and, although situated ia 
the middle of the village, are as rural and sequestered 
as if they had been built in the heart of the country. 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 207 

Through the gardens, and in view of the chamber of 
my dear friend, flows a limpid stream, on the oppo- 
site side of which is the great road, where, during a 
succession of ages, a crowd of pilgrims have almost 
daily passed, in their way to the convent of the Her- 
mitage. From these houses and gardens, at about 
the distance of a league, you behold, towards the 
south, the majestick Ezeberg rear its head ; black for- 
ests conceal its top ; while below, on the declivity of 
the hill, hangs a village, with a beautiful church, on 
the steeple of which the sun suspends its departing 
rays every evening, before his course is finished. In 
the front is the lake of Zurich, whose unruffled waters 
are secured from the violence of tempests, and whosfe 
transparent surface reflects the beauties of its delight* 
fill banks. 

During the silence of night, if you repair to the 
chamber window, or indulge in a lonely walk through 
the gardens, to taste the refreshing scents which ex- 
hale from the surrounding flowers, while. the moon, 
rising above the mountains, reflects on the expanse of 
the lake, a broad beam of light ; you hear, during 
this awful sleep of nature, the sound of the village 
clock echoing from the opposite shores ; and on the 
Richterswyl side, the shrill proclamations of the 
watchmen, blended with the barkings of the faithful 
dog. At a distance, you hear the little boats softly 
gliding down the stream, dividing the water with their 
oars ; you perceive them cross the moon's translucent 
.beam, and play among the sparkling waves. Gn 
viewing the Lake of Geneva in its full extent, the 
majesty of such a sublime picture strikes the specta- 
tor dumb ; he thinks that he has discovered the chef 
d'eeuvre of creation ; but here, near the L'^ke of Zu- 
rich at Richterswyl, the objects, being upon a small 
scale, are more soft, agreeable, and touching. 

Riches and luxurv are no where to be seen in the 



208 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

habitation of this philanthropist. You are there seat- 
ed upon matted chairs. He writes upon tables work- 
ed from the wood of the country ; and he and his 
friends eat on earthen plates. Neatness and conven- 
ience reign throughout. Large collections of drawings, 
paintings and engravings, are his sole expence. The 
first beams of Aurora light the little chamber where 
this philosophick sage sleeps in peaceful repose, and 
opens his eyes to every new day. Rising from his 
bed, he is saluted by the cooings of the turtle doves, 
and the morning song of birds who sleep with him in 
su adjoining chamber. 

The first hour of the morning, and the last at night, 
are sacred to himself ; but he devotes all the interme- 
diate hours of the day to the assistance of a diseased 
and afflicted multitude, who daily attend him for ad- 
vice and assistance. The benevolent exercise of his 
profession engrosses every moment of his life, but it 
also constitutes his happiness and joy. All the inhab- 
itants of the mountains of Switzerland, as well as of 
the vallies of the Alps, resort to his house, and vainly 
seek for language to express the grateful feelings of 
their hearts. They are persuaded that the Doctor 
sees and knows every thing ; they answer his ques- 
tions with frankness and fidelity ; they listen to his 
words, treasure up his advice like grains of gold, and 
leave him with more regret, consolation, hope, and 
virtuous resolution, than they quit their confessors at 
the Hermitage. After a day spent in this manner, 
can it be imagined that any thing is wanting to com- 
plete the happiness of this friend of mankind ? Yes ; 
when a simple and ingenuous female, who had trem- 
bled with fear for the safety of a beloved husband, 
enters his chamber, and seizing him fondly by the 
hand, exclaims, " My husband, sir, was very ill when 
" first I came to you ; but in the space of two days 
" he quite recovered. Oh ! my dear Sir, I am under 



ON THE MIND ANB THE HEART. 209 

" the greatest obligations. to you." This philanthro- 
pic character feels that which ought to fill the bosom 
of a monarch, in the moment when he confers happi- 
ness on his people. 

Of this description is the country of Swisserland, 
where Doctor Hotze, the ablest physician of the pre- 
sent age, resides : a physician and philosopher, whose 
pervading genius, profound judgement, and great ex- 
perience, have placed him with Ti&sot Hixzej., the 
dearest friends of my heart. It is in this manner he 
passes the hours of his life ; all uniform, and all of 
them happy : he reserves, indeed, only two hours of 
each day to himself, and devotes the rest to the relief 
of the unfortunate, who daily visit him in this celestial 
region. H . * mind, active and full of vigour, never 
seeks repose ; but there is a divine quietude dwells 
within his heart, Alas ! there are no such characters 
to be found in a Court, Individuals, however, of eve- 
ry description, have it in their power to taste an equal 
degree of happiness, although they may not have the 
opportunity of residing amidst scenes so delightful as 
those which the situation of my beloved Hotze 
at Richterswyl, the Convent of Capuchins near Alba- 
no, or the mansion of my Sovereign at Windsor, 
affords, 

■ x The man who does not ask for more enjoyments 
than he possesses, is completely happy. Such a 
felicity is easily found at Richterswyl, upon the 
banks of the Lake of Zurich ; but it may be also more 
easily be found than is generally imagined, even in such 
a chamber as that in which I am now writing this 
Treatise upon Solitude, where, during seven years, I 
had nothing to look at but some broken tiles, and a 
vane upon the spire of an old church. 

Content must always derive its source from the 
'heart ; and in Solitude the bosom dilates more easily 
to receive it, with all the virtues- by which it is accom- 
S 2 



210 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

panied. How good, how affectionate does the heart 
become, on the border of a clear spring, or in the en- ' 
joyment of a calm repose, under the shades of a 
branching pine ! In Solitude, the tranquility of nature 
glides into the heart ; but in Society, we find much 
more occasion to fly from ourselves than from others. 
To be at peace with ourselves, we must be in concord 
with all mankind. While the heart is tranquil, the 
mind considers men and things in the most favourable 
and pleasing point of view. In rural retirements, 
where it is open only to agreeable sensations ; we learn 
to love our fellow-creatures. While all nature smiles 
around us, and our souls overflow with benevolence, 
we wish for more hearts than one to participate in our 
happiness. 

By mild and peaceful dispositions, therefore, the 
felicities of a domestick life are relished in a much 
higher degree in rural retirement, than in any other 
situation whatever. The most splendid courts in 
Europe afford no joys equal to these ; and their vain 
pleasures can never assuage the justifiable grief of him 
who, contrary to his inclination, feels himself torn from 
such a felicity, dragged into the palaces of kings, and 
obliged to conform to the frivolous life practised there, 
where people do nothing but game and yawn, £:nd 
among whom the reciprocal communication of lan- 
guors, hatred, envy, flattery, and calumny alone pre- 
Tails.* 

It is in rural life alone that true pleasures, the love, 
the honour, and the chaste manners of ancient days 

•* Madame de Maintenon wrote from Marli to 
Madame- de Caylus, " We pass our lives here in a 
44 very singular manner. Wit, gallantry, and cheerful- 
a ness should prevail ; but of all these qualities, we are 
** totally destitute ; we game, yawn, fatigue ourselves, re- 
" ciprocally receive and communicate vexation^ hate> 
" envy, cares?.; and calumniate each others 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 211 

are revived. Rousseau, therefore, says' with great 
truth to the inhabitants of cities, that the country af- 
fords pleasures which they do not even suspect ; that 
these pleasures are less insipid, less unpolished than 
they conceive ; that taste, variety, and delicacy may 
be enjoyed there ; that a man of merit, who retires 
with his family into the country, and turns farmer, 
will find his days pass as pleasantly as in the most 
brilliant assemblies ; that a good housewife in the 
country may also be a charming woman, a woman 
adorned with every agreeable qualification, and possess 
graces much more captivating than all those prim and 
affected females wholn we see in towns. 

The mind, under refreshing shades, in agreeable 
vallies, and delightful retreats, forgets all the un- 
pleasant circumstances it encountered in the world. 
The most profligate and wicked characters are no 
longer remembered in society, when they are no long- 
er seen. It is only in the tumultuous scenes of civil 
life, and under the heavy yoke of subordination, that 
the continual shock of reason and good sense, against 
the stupidity of those who govern, spreads a torrent of 
miseries over human life. Fools in power render the 
lives of their inferiors bitter, poison their pleasures, 
overturn all social order, spread thorns in the path of 
those who have more understanding than themselves, 
and make this world a vale of discouragement, indig- 
nation and tears. Oh ! that men of honour at court, 
brave and skilful generals, able agents, should have 
a right to exclaim with the philosopher, " Had I but 
" the wings of a dove, that I might fly where my in- 
" clination leads me, and fix my dwelling as chance 
« might direct, I would take a distant flight, and con- 
« tinue in the desart ! I would hasten to escape from 
" the tempest ; for I perceive hypocrisy, malice, 
« falsehood, and disease, prevail at court, in the army, 
«< and in the city." 



212 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

Stupidity, when it has gained credit and authority, 
becomes more dangerous and hurtful than any other 
quality ; it always inclines to render every thing p.s- 
little as itself, gives to every thing a false name, and 
mistakes every character for the opposite to what it 
really is ; in a word, stupidity always calls white black, 
and black white. Men of frank, honest, liberal dispo- 
sitions, therefore, if they would escape from his per- 
secution, must learn all his tricks and all his turnings, 
as well as the fox of Saadi, the Indian fabulist. 

A person one day observing a fox Fanning with 
great speed towards his hole, called out to him :— . 
" Reynard : where are you running in so great ahur- 
" ry ? Have you done any mischief for which you 
« are fearful of being punished ?" " No Sir," replied 
the fox, " my conscience is clear, and does not re- 
« proach me with any thing ; but I have just over- 
« heard the hunters wish that they had a Camel to 
" hunt this morning/"' — a Well ; but how does that 
« concern you ? You are not a Camel." — " Oh ! Sir," 
replied the fox, " sagacious heads always have ene- 
" mies. If a»y one should point me out to the 
" huntsmen, and say, " There runs a Camel," those 
, « gentlemen would immediately seize me, and load 
" me with chains, without once enquiring whether I 
M was in fact the kind of animal the informer had de- 
« scribed me to be." 

Reynard was perfectly right in his observation : 
T)ut it is lamentable that men should be wicked in pro- 
portion as they are stupid, or that they should be 
wicked only because they are envious. If I should 
ever become the object of their wrath, because they 
conceived that I enjoyed more happiness than them- 
selves, and it were impossible for me to escape from 
their persecutions, I would only revenge myself by 
letting them ^perceive that no man living is to me an 
object of scamdal. 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 2 13 

Nothing can wound the self-love of that breast 
which feels no desire for more than it possesses. 
The calm temper which results from a life simple, 
regular and serene, guards the heart against the ex- 
cess of desire. By living in continual communioa 
with ourselves, we unavoidably perceive how deficient 
we are in many of those qualifications, which, in the 
opinion of others, we are supposed to possess ; the 
advantages we gain, as well as all the happiness we 
feel, appear, in consequence, to be the effect of favours 
conferred on us. This reason alone renders it impos- 
sible that we should repine at the happiness of anoth- 
er ; for candour will force a man who lives continually 
by himself, and acts with sincerity of heart, to reflect 
upon his own defects, and to do justice to the superior 
merit of other men* 

" I should wish to end my days in the delightful 
" Solitudes of Lausanne," says a French historian of 
that province, " far retired from the tumultuous scenes 
• of the world, from avarice, and from deceit ; in 
" those Solitudes, where a thousand innocent pleasures 
" are enjoyed and renewed without end : there we es- 
" cape from profligate discourse, from unmeaning 
¥ chatter, from envy, detraction and jealousy. Upon 
" those smiling plains, the extent of which the as- 
¥ tonished eye is incapable of mea^ uing, it is impos- 
« sible to see, without admiring the goodness of the 
« Divine Creator ; so many different animals wan- 
" dering peaceably among each other ; so many 
" birds making the woods re-echo to their songs ; so 
" many wonders of nature, which invite the mind to 
« silent contemplation." 

It appears to me, that to whatever place in Germa- 
ny you turn your eyes, you find in every peaceful 
family, as in the Solitudes of Lausanne, more pure 
and genuine pleasures than are ever seen in fashiona- 
ble life. The industrious citizen who returns in the 



214 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

evening to his wife and children, after having honour- 
ably performed the labours of the day, is without 
doubt as contented as any courtier. If the voice of 
the publick and his fellow-citizens do not render to a 
man of business the justice, esteem, and honour, 
which his character merits ; if his zeal and good 
works meet with neglect, and are* treated with ingra- 
titude and contempt ; his mind will soon forget the 
injustice, when he returns to the bosom of his happy 
family, sees their arms open ready to receive him, and 
obtains from them the praise and approbation which he 
truly merits. With what delight his heart feels the 
value of their fondness and affection ! If the eclat of 
fashionable life, the splendour of courts, the triumph 
of power and grandeur, have left his bosom cold and 
comfortless ; if the base practices of fraud, falsehood, 
hypocrisy, and puerile vanities, have irritated and 
soured his mind ; he no sooner mixes in the circle of 
those whom he cherishes, than a genial warmth re- 
animates his dejected heart, the tenderest sentiments 
inspire his soul with courage, and the truth, freedom, 
probity, and innocence by which he is surrounded, re- 
concile him to the lot of humanity. If, on the con- 
trary, he should enjoy a more brilliant situation, be 
the favourite of a minister, the companion of the great, 
loved by the women, and admired in every publick 
place as the leader of the fashion ; should his station 
be high, and his fortunes rich, but his dwelling prove 
the seat of discord and jealousy, and the bosom of his 
family a stranger to that peace which the wise and 
virtuous taste under a roof of thatch, would all these 
dazzling pleasures compensate for this irreparable 
loss ? 

These are my sentiments on the advantages which 
Solitude possesses to reconcile us to the lot of human- 
ity, and the practices of the world ; but I shall here 
only cite the words of another — the words of a doctor 



ON TKI MIKB AND TME HEART, 215 

of divinity, of the same -tenets with myself — a nidi? 
cious theoiigian, who does not inculcate imperious doc- 
trines, or propagate a religion which offends the heart. 
They are the words of his sermon upon domestick 
happiness, of that incomparable discourse which men 
of every description ought to read, 2 swell as a}l the 
other sermons of Zollikoter. 

" Solitude," says this divine, " secures us from the 
* aspersions of light and frivolous minds : from the 
* { unjust contempt and harsh judgement of the envious 
« —^preserves us from the afflicting spectacle of fol- 
" lies, crimes and misery, which so frequently disgra- 
<< ces the theatre of active and social life ; extinguishes 
« the fire of those passions which are too lively and 
» ardent ; and establishes peace in our hearts," 

These are the sentiments of my beloved Zqllikq* 
fer — -the truth of which I have experienced. When 
my enemies conceived that accidents, however trifling, 
would trouble my repose— when I was told with what 
satisfaction the coteries would hear of my distress, that 
les belles dames would leap for joy, and form a cluster 
round the man who detailed the injuries I had receiv- 
ed, and those which were yet in store for me-— I said 
to myself " Although my enemies should have sworn 
" to afflict me with a thousand deaths, what harm can 
" they really do me ? What can epigrams and plea- 
" santries prove ? What sting do these satirical en- 
a gravings carry, which I have taken the pains to cir- 
" culate through every part of Swisserland and Ger? 
« many ?" 

The thorns over which the steady foot walks un- 
hurt, or kicks from beneath it with contempt, inflict 
wounds and ulcers only upon effeminate minds, who 
feel that as a serious injury which others think noth- 
ing of. Characters of this description require to be 
treated, like the flowers of young plants, with delicacy 
and attention \ and cannot bear the touch of rude and 



216 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

violent hands. But he who has exercised his powers 
in the greatest dangers, and has combated with adver- 
sity ; who feels his soul superior to the false opinions 
and prejudices of the world ; neither sees nor feels 
the blow — he resigns trifles to the narrow minds which 
they occupy, and looks down with courage and con<- 
tempt upon the vain boastings of such miserable inr 
sects. 

To forget the fury of our enemies, the assistance of 
soft zephyrs, clear springs, well stored rivers, thick 
forests, refreshing grottos, verdant banks, or fields 
adorned with flowers, is not always necessary. Oh ! 
how soon, in the tranquility of retirement, every an- 
tipathy is obliterated 1 All the little crosses of life, all 
the obloquies, every injustice, every low and trifling 
care, vanish like smoke before him who has courage to 
live according to his own taste and inclination. That 
which we do voluntarily is always more agreeable 
than that which we do by compulsion. The restraints 
of the world, and the slavery of society, alone can 
poison the pleasures of free minds, deprive them of 
every satisfaction, content and power, even when pla- 
ced in a sphere of elegance, easy in fortune, and sur- 
rounded by abundance. 

Solitude, therefore, not only brings quietude to the 
heart, renders it kind and virtuous, and raises it above 
the malevolence of envy, wickedness, and stupidity, 
but affords advantages still more valuable. Liberty, 
true liberty, is no where so easily found as in a distant 
retirement from the tumults of men and every forced 
connection with the world. It has been truly said, 
that in Solitude Man recovers from that distraction 
which had torn him from himself ; that he feels in 
his mind a clear and intimate knowledge of what he 
was, and of what he had been ; that he lives more 
within himself and for himself than in external objects ; 
that he enters into the state of nature and freedom j 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 2 W 

no longer plays an artificial part, no longer 
represents a different personage, but thinks,- speaks, 
and acts according to his proper character and senti- 
ments ; that he discovers the whole extent of his na- 
ture, and does not act beyond it ; that he no longer 
dreads a severe master, an imperious tyrant ; that lie 
ridicules no one, and is himself proof against the shafts 
of calumny ; that neither the constraints of business 
nor the ceremonies of fashion disquiet his mind ; but, 
breaking through the shackles of servile habit and ar- 
bitrary custom, he thinks with confidence and coin- 
age, and the sensibilities of his heart resign themselves 
to the sentiments of his mind. 

Madame de Staal considered it as a great and 
vulgar errour to suppose that freedom and liberty 
could be enjoyed at court ; where, even in the most 
minute actions of our lives, we are obliged to observe 
so many different things ; where it is impossible to 
think aloud ; where our sentiments must be regulated 
by the circumstances of those around us ; where eve- 
ry person we approach seems to possess the right of 
scrutinizing our charactei^s ; and where we never have 
the smallest enjoyment of ourselves. " The enjoy* 
" ment of one's-self/' says she, " can only be found 
" in Solitude. It was within the walls of the Bastile 
" that I first became acquainted with myself." 

Men of liberal minds are as ill qualified by nature to 
be chamberlains, and at the head of the etiquette of a 
court, as women are to be rcligleuses. The courtier 
is fearful of every thing he sees, is always upon the 
watch, incessantly tormented by an everlasting sus- 
picion ; yet notwithstanding all this, he must pre 
the face of serenity and satisfaction ; and, like that 
old woman, he always lights one taper to Michael the 
Archangel and another to the Devi!, because lie dc j r> 
not know fer which of them he may have the most 
occasion. 

f 



218 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE , 

Such precautions and constraints arc insupportable 
to every man who is not formed by nature for a cour- 
tier. In situations therefore less connected with the 
world, men of liberal minds, sound understandings, 
and active dispositions, break all the chains by which 
they are withheld- To find any pleasure in the fumes 
of fashion, it is lfc.cessary to have been trained up in 
the habits of a court. The dtfect of judgement which 
reigns in courts, without doubt magnifies the most 
trifling details into matters of high importance ; and 
the long constraint which the soul there endures, 
makes many things appear easy to a courtier, which, 
for want of habit, would carry torment to the bosom) 
of another. Who has not experienced what it is to 
be forced to remain fixed to one's chair, and to talk a 
whole evening, even in common society, without 
knowing on what subject to converse,- and of course 
without being able to say any thing ? Who has not 
occasionally found himself in company with those who 
willingly listen to sensible conversation, but never con- 
tribute a single idea to the promotion of it themselves ? 
Who has not seen his thoughts fall upon a mind so 
barren, that they produce no return ; and slide through 
the ears of his auditors like water upon oil-cloth ? 

How many men of contemplative minds are the 
slaves of fools and madmen ! How many rational be* 
ings pass their lives in bondage, by being unfortunate- „ 
ly attached to a Worthless faction ! How many men of 
excellent understandings are condemned to perform a 
pitiful part in many provincial towns ! The company 
of a man wholaughs at every thing that is honourable, 
and rejects those sentiments which lead to love and 
esteem, soon becomes insupportable. There are no 
worse tyrants than the prejudices of mankind, and 
the servitude of liberal minds becomes more weighty 
in proportion to the publick ignorance. To form a se? 
rious thought of pleasing in publick life is vain ; for t<? 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 219 

succeed in such an endeavour, we must sacrifice all 
thought, give up every real sentiment of the sou!* 
despise every thing which rational minds esteem, and 
esteem every thing which a man of understanding and 
good sense despises, or else, by blindly dashing for- 
ward upon all occasions, hazard content, tranquility 
and fortune. 

A rural residence, or a tranquil and domestick life 
in town, will secure us from these constraints, and is 
the only means of rendering us free and independent 
of those situations which are hostile to the mind, and 
repugnant to good sense. But if Solitude ought to be 
free from constraint, we must neither take the habit 
of monarchism, nor, like the Doge of Venice, wear 
the diadem of sovereignty. This abject slave cannot 
visit a friend, nor receive a foreign ambassador, with- 
out a special permission from the Senate for that pur- 
pose. He is indeed so wretched, that every one is 
compelled to acknowledge that Solitude and depend- 
ence are the highest prerogatives of his crown. 

The soul, when neither clogged, nor withheld, nor 
tormented by surrounding objects, becomes sensible, 
in Solitude, of its powers, and attains a clear and in- 
timate knowledge of its present state, and of what it is 
able to perform. Liberty and leisure, therefore, al- 
ways render a rational and active mind indifferent to 
every other kind of happiness. 

Solitude and the love of liberty rendered all the 
pleasures of the world odious to the mind of Pe- 
trarch. In his old age he was solicited to officiate 
as Secretary to different Popes, at whatever salary he 
thought proper to fix ; and indeed every inducement 
that emolument could afford, was insidiously made use 
of to turn his views that way. But Petkakch repli- 
ed, " Riches acquired at the expence of liberty are 
" the cause of real misery : a yoke made of gold or 
<< silver, is not less oppressive than if made of wood 



£20 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

a or lead. 55 He represented to his patrons and friends,, 
that he could not persuade himself to give up his li- 
berty and his leisure, because, in his opinion, the 
world afforded no wealth of equal vaiue ; that he could 
Hot renounce the pleasures of science ; that he had 
despised riches at a time when he was most in need of 
them, and it would be shameful to seek them now, 
when it was more easy for him to do without them ; 
that he should apportion the provision for his journey 
according to the distance he had to travel ; and that 
having almost reached the end of his course, he ought 
to think more of his reception at the inn than of his 
expences on the road. 

A distaste of the manners of a Court led Pe- 
trarch into Solitude when he was only three and 
twenty years of age, although in his outward appear- 
ance, in his attention to dress, and even in his consti- 
tution, he possessed every thing that could be expect- 
ed from a complete courtier. He was in every res- 
pect formed to please : the beauty of his figure caus- 
ed people to stop in the street, and point him out as 
he walked along. His eyes were bright, and full of 
fire ; and his lively countenance proclaimed the viva- 
city of his mind. The freshest colour , adorned his 
cheeks ; his features were distinct and, manly ; his 
shape fine and elegant ; his person tall, and his pre- 
sence noble. The genial climate cf Avignon increased 
the warmth of his constitution. The fire of youth, 
the beauty of so many women assembled at the Court 
of the Pope from every nation in Europe, and above 
all the dissolute manners of the Court, led him, very 
early in life, into connexions with women. A great 
portion cf the clay was spent at his toilette in the de- 
corations of dress. His. habit was always white, and 
the least spot or an improper fold gave his mind the 
greatest uneasiness. Even in the fashion of his shoes 
he avoided every form that appeared to him inelegant S 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 221 

they were extremely tight, and cramped his feet to 
such a degree, that it would in a short time have been 
impossible for him to walk, if he had not recollected 
that it was much better to shock the eyes of the ladies 
than to make himself a cripple. In walking through 
the streets, he endeavoured to avoid the rudeness of 
the wind by every possible means ; not that he was 
afraid of taking cold, but because he was fearful that 
the dress of his hair might be deranged. A love, 
however, much more elevated and ardent for virtue 
and tfce bcUee lettres^ always counterbalanced his de- 
votion to the fair sex. In truth, to express his passion 
for the sex, he wrote all his poetry in Italian, and 
only used the learned languages upon serious and im- 
port subjects. But notwithstanding the warmth of 
his constitution, he was always chaste. He held all 
debauchery in the utmost detestation ; repentance and 
disgust immediately seized his mind upon the slight- 
est indulgence with the sex ; and he often regretted 
the sensibility of his feelings ; " I should like," said 
he, " to have a heart as hard as adamant, rather than 
" be so continually tormented by such seducing pas- 

;3/* Among the number of fine women, how- 
ever;, vv'io adorned the Court at ylvignon, there were 

who endeavoured to captivate the heart of Pe- 
trarch. Seduced by their charms, and drawn aside 
by the facili with which he obtained the happiness 
of their company, he became upon closer acquain- 
tance obedient to all their wishes ; but the inquietudes 
and torments of love so much alarmed his mind, 
that he endeavoured to shun her toils. Before his 
acquaintance with Laura, he was wilder than a stag ; 
but, if tradition is to be believed, he had not, at the 
age of thirty-five, any occasion to reproach himself 
with misconduct. The fear of God, the idea of death, 
the love of virtue, the principles of religion, the fruits 
of the education he received from his mother, pre* 
T 2 



£22 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

served him from the numerous dangers by which he 
•was surrounded. The practice of the Civil Law was 
at this period the only road to eminence at the Court 
of the Pope ; but Petrarch held the Law in detes- 
tation, and reprobated this venal trade. Previous to 
devoting- himself to the Church, he exercised for some 
time the profession of an advocate, and gained many- 
causes ; but he reproached himself with it afterwards. 
" In my youth," says he, *' I devoted myself to the 
" trade of selling words, or rather of telling lies ; but 
a that which we do against our inclinations, is seldom 
iC attended with success. My fondness was for Soli- 
" tude, and I therefore attended the practice of the 
li bar with the greater detestation." The secret con- 
sciousness which Petrarch entertained of his own 
merit, gave him, it is true, all the vain confidence of 
youth ; and filled his mind with that lofty spirit which 
begets the presumption of being equal to every thing ; 
but his inveterate hatred of the manners of the Court 
impeded his exertions. " I have no hope," said he, 
in the thirty -fifth year of his age, " of making my 
M fortune in the Court of the Vicar of Jesus Christ : 
" to accomplish that, I must assiduously visit the pa- 
" laces of the great ; I must flatter, lie, and deceive." 
Petrarch was not capable of doing this. He nei- 
ther hated men nor disliked advancement, but he 
detested the means that he must necessarily use to at- 
tain it. He loved glory, and ardently sought it, 
though not by the ways m which it is generally ob- 
tained. He delighted to walk in the most unfrequent- 
ed paths, and, in consequence, he renounced the 
world. 

The aversion which Petrarch felt from the man- 
ners which are peculiar to Courts was the particular 
occasion o£ his Essay upon Solitude. In the year 
1346 he was, as usual, during Lent at Vaucluse. 
The Bishop of Cavillon, anxious to enter into con- 



OK THE MIND ANB THE HEART. 223 

v ersation with him, and to taste the fruits of Solitude, 
fixed his residence at his castle, which is situated up- 
on the .summit of a high rock, and appears to be con- 
structed more for t lie habitation of birds than men ; at 
present the ruins of it only remain to be seen. All 
thsit the Bishop and Petrarch had seen at Avignon 
and Naples had inspired them with disgust of residence 
in cities, and the highest contempt for the manners of 
a court. They weighed all the unpleasant circum- 
stances they had before experienced, and opposed the 
situations which produced them to the advantages of 
Solitude. This was the usual subject of their con- 
versation at the castle, and that which gave birth, in 
the mind of Fetrabch^ to the resolution of exploring 
and uniting, into one work, all his own ideas, and those 
of others, upon this delightful subject. This work 
was begun in Lent and finished at Easter ; but he re- 
vised and corrected it afterwards, making many altera- 
tions, and adding every thing which occurred to his 
mind previous to the publication. It was not till the 
year 1366, twenty years afterwards, that he sent it to 
the Bishop of Cavillqn, to whom it was dedicated. 

If all that I have said of Petrarch in the course 
cf this work, were to be collected into one point of 
view, it would be seen what very important sacrifices 
he made to Solitude. But his mind and his heart were 
framed to enjoy the advantages it affords with a degree 
of delight superior to that in which any other person 
could have enjoyed them, and all this happiness he 
obtained from this disgust to a court, and from his 
love of liberty. 

The love of liberty was also the cause of Rous- 
seau's feeling so violent a disgust for Society, and in 
Solitude became the source of all his pleasures. His 
Letters to M. de Malherbe are as remarkable for 
the information they afford of the true genius of the 
writer, as are his Confessions j which have not been 



224 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

better understood than his character. He writes in 
one of them, " I mistook for a great length of time 
" the cause of that invincible disgust which I have al- 
" ways felt in the commerce of the world. I attrihut- 
" ed it to the mortification of not possessing that quick 
« and ready talent necessary to discover in conversa- 
" tion the little knowledge which I possessed ; and 
" this beat back an idea that I did not occupy that sta- 
" tion in the opinion of mankind which I conceived I 
" merited. But after having scribbled a great quan- 
" tity of paper, I was perfectly convinced, that even 
« in saying ridiculous things I was in no danger of 
M being taken for a fool. When I perceived myself 
" sought after by all the world, and honoured with 
« much more consideration than even my own riclicu- 
" lous vanity would have ventured to expect ; and 
" that, notwithstanding this, I felt the same disgust 
" rather augmented than diminished ; I concluded that 
" it must arise from some other cause, and that these 
" were not the kind of enjoyments for which I must 
" look. What then, in fact, is the cause of it ? It is 
" no other than that invincible spirit of liberty which 
" nothing can overcome, and in comparison with 
" which honour, fortune and even fame itself, are to 
" me nothing. It is certain, that this spirit of iibei*- 
« ty is less engendered by pride than byjndolence ; 
" but this indolence is incredible ; it is alarmed at 
" every thing ; it renders the most trifling duties of 
" civil life insupportable : to be obliged to speak a 
« word, to write a letter, or to pay a visit, are to me, 
" from the moment the obligation arises, the severest 
" punishments. This is the reason, why, although 
" the ordinary commerce of men is odious to me, the 
" pleasures of private friendship are so clear to my 
" heart ; for in the indulgence of private friendships 
" there are no duties to perform, we have only to fol- 
« low the feelings of the heart, and all is done. This 



ON THE MINI* AND THE HEART. %4Z 

« is the reason also why I have so much dreaded to 
" accept of favours ; for every act of kindness de- 
" mantis an acknowledgement ; and I feel that my 
" heart is ungrateful, only because gratitude becomes 
" a duty. The kind of happiness, m short, which 
" pleases me best, does not consist so much in doing 
" what I wish, as in avoiding that which is repugnant 
" to my inclination. Active life affords no temptati- 
" ons to me ; I would a hundred times rather do 
" nothing at all, than that which I dislike ; and I have 
" frequently thought, that 1 should not have lived 
" very unhappily even in the B a stile, provided I 
jfj was free from every other constraint than that of 
" merely residing within its walls." 

The advantages of a tranquil leisure were never felt 
with higher delight than by Rousseau ; these enjoy- 
ments, however, are equally within the reach of every 
individual. cC When my torments," says this amia- 
ble philosopher, " oblige me to count the long and 
" sorrowful progress of the- night, and the violence of 
M my fever prevents me from enjoying one moment's 
" sleep, I frequently forget my present condition in 
F reflecting on the various events of my life, and re- 
" collection, repentance, regret and pity, divide those 
" attentions in which I bury, for a few moments, all 
u my sufferings. What situations do you conceive, 
u Sir, I most frequently and most cheerfully recall to 
f* my mind in these meditations ? Not the pleasures 
u of my youth ; they were too few, too much blend- 
" ed with bitterness, and are now too distant from my 
* thoughts ; but the pleasures of my retirement, my 
M solitary walks, the transient though delicious days 
" which I have passed entirely with myself, with my 
M good old housekeeper, my faithful well-beloved dog, 
" my old cat, the birds of the fields, and the beasts of 
" the forests, surrounded by all the charms of nature, 
w and filled with their divine and incomprehensible 



226 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

" Author. Repairing before it was light to my gar- 
" den, to see and contemplate the rising* sun, when I 
" discovered the symptoms of a fine day, my first 
u prayer was, that neither messages nor visitors might 
" arrive to disturb the charm. After having devoted 
" the morning to various cares, which as I could put 
" them oft' till another time I always attended to with 
" pleasure, I hastened to my dinner that I might 
" avoid unpleasant visitors, and thereby procure a 
" longer afternoon. Before one o'clock, even in. the 
" hottest days of summer, while the sun shone its 
" meridian splendour, I walked forth with my faith- 
fl ful Achates, hurring along, fearful lest someone 
(< might seize hold of me before I was secure in my 
" escape ; but when I had once turned a certain corn- 
" er, and felt myself free from danger, with what 
" palpitation of heart, with what lively joy I drew my 
" breath, and exclaimed, Now I am master of my time 
" for the remainder of the day! I then walked with 
" tranquil steps in search of some wild sequestered 
" spot in the forest, some desart place, where no ob- 
" ject, touched by the hands of men, announced ser- 
" vitude and domination ; some asylum, into which I 
" might fancy that I alone had first entered, and where 
44 no impertinent intruder might interpose between 
" nature and myself." 

Who would not willingly renounce the dissipations 
of the world for these calm enjoyments of the heart ! 
the splendid slavery of society for this inestimable lib- 
erty ! I am perfectly aware that mankind, in gene- 
ral, are not in a situation so favourable to self-enjoy- 
ment ; only let them try, however, the pure pleasures 
of the country, and they will find that one day of lib- 
erty, one hour of quiet, will effectually cure them of 
their anxiety for feasts, shows, finery, and all the noi- 
sy rendezvous of fashion and fouy. 

Pope Clement the sixth offered to Petrahch, 



GN THE MIKD AND THE HEART. 227 

beside the office cf Apostoiick Secretary, many consi- 
derable bishopricks. Petrarch constantly refused 
them. " You will not accept of any thing that I of- 
" fer to you I" said the Holy Father : " Ask of me 
" what you please. 55 Two months afterwards Pe- 
trarch wrote to one of his friends, " Every degree 
" of elevation creates new suspicions in my mind, be- 
« cause I perceive the misfortunes that attend it„ 
" Would they but grant me that happy mediocrity so 
preferable to gold, and which they have promised 
W me, I should accept the gift with gratitude and cor^ 
" diality ; but if they only intend to invest me with 
" some important employment, I shall refuse.it. I 
f will shake off the yoke ; for I had much rather live 
f? poor than become a slave. 55 

' An Englishman somewhere asks, " Why are the 
f* inhabitants of the rich plains of Lombavdy, where 
w nature pours her gifts in such profusion, less opu- 
¥ lent than those of the mountains of Swisserland ? 
H Because freedom, whose influence is more benign 
M than sunshine and zephyrs, who covers the rugged 
M rock with soil, drains the sickly swamp, and clothes 
" the brown heath in verdure ; who dresses the la- 
¥ bourer 5 s face with smiles, and makes him behold 
P his increasing family with delight and exultation ; 
" freedom has abandoned the fertile fields of Lombai> 
" 6y, and dwells among the mountains of Swisser* 
« land. 55 

This is the warm enthusiasm of poetry ; but it is 
literally true at Uri, Schwitz, Unedvald, Zuir, Claris. 
and Appenzel. For he who has more than his wants 
require, is rich ; and whoever is enabled to think, 
to speak, and to employ himself as his inclination 
may direct, is free. 

Competency and liberty, therefore, are the true 
sweeteners of life. That state of mind, so rarely pos- 
sessed, in which we can sincerely say, " / have 



22 & THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

enough^' is the highest attainment of philosophy. 
Plappiness consists not in having too much, but suf- 
ficient. Kings and princes are unhappy, because they 
always desire more than they possess, and are contin- 
ually stimulated to accomplish more than it is within 
their power to attain. The greatest and the best of 
kings are therefore not to blame, if they sometimes 
say, " My so?2, lam deaf to-day on my left ear." 

Men are, ordinarily, inclined to appear much hap- 
pier than, in fact, they are ; and they consider every 
thing which detracts from this appearance as a real 
misfortune. But if you are happy, by any means 
whatsoever, conduct yourself so that nobody shall 
know it, except your most intimate friends. Conceal 
all the feelings you possess, hide all the felicity you 
enjoy — for envy is ever watchful to find its way into 
the bosom of tranquility, and will soon destroy its se- 
renity. 

He who only wants little has always enough. " 
" am contented," says Petrarch, in a letter to his 
friends, the Cardinals Talletrand and Bologfa, 
" I desire nothing more. I have placed limits to my 
" desires. I enjoy every thing that is necessary to 
" life. Cincinnat'us, CurtuSjFabricius, Regulus, 
" after having conquered nations and led kings in tri- 
" umph, were not so rich as I am. But I should al- 
<c ways be poor if I were to open a door to my pas- 
6i sions. Luxury, ambition, avarice, know no bounds 
« — and desire is a fathomless abyss. I have cloaths 
" to cover me ; victuals to support me ; horses to 
" carry me ; lands to lie down or walk upon while I 
" live, and to receive my remains when dead. What 
M more was any Roman emperour possessed of ? My 
" body is healthy ; anc4 the flesh, subdued by labour, 
tt is less rebellious against the spirit. I have books of 
* every kind, which to me are an inestimable treas- 
« lire ; they fill my soul with a voluptuous delight. 



©tf THE MISS ASTB THE HEART. .%%$ 

i* which is never tinctured with remorse. I have friends 
h whom I consider more precious than any thing 
« I possess ; provided their counsels do not tend to 
« deprive me of my liberty. I know of no other ene- 
«' mies than those which envy has raised against me. 
*< I despise them, from, the bottom of my heart ; and 
<» perhaps it would be unhappy for me were they not 
ft my enemies, I still reckon among my riches, the 
<< love and kindness of all the good men who are upon 
«< earth, even those whom I have never seen, and per- 
f* haps never shall see/' 

From this passage we may discover that envy fol- 
lowed Petrarch into the retreats of Solitude. He 
frequently complains of it ; but in this letter he treats 
it with propriety. He despises his envious enemies, 
and would be sorry if he were without them. 

Solitude discovers to mankind their real wants.-—. 
Where great simplicity of manners prevails, men al- 
ways possess sufficient for the enjoyment of life. If I 
neither see nor know the things which you have or de- 
sire to possess, I cannot entertain even an idea of any 
good which they can possibly produce. An old coun- 
try curate, residing upon a lofty mountain, near the 
lake of Thun, in the canton of Berne, was one day pre- 
sented with a moor-cock. The good man was tgno- 
rant of the rarity he had received, and consulted with 
his cook what he should do with it. The pastor and 
the cook agreed to bury it in the ground. Alas ! were 
jwe all as ignorant of moor-cocks^ we should all be as 
happy as the curate of the mountain near the lake of 
Thun. 

He who places limits to his real wants is more 
wise, more rich, and more contented than us all.— - 
The system upon which he acts partakes of the no- 
ble simplicity of his mind. He finds felicity in the 
most obscure life, in situations at the greatest distance 
from the world. Truth and simplicity are the only 

u 



230 THE INFLUENCE 01? SOLITUDE 

objects of his affection : he follows that philosophy 
which requires but little, has few wants, and seeks his 
highest happiness in a contented mind. 

Pope, v y twelve yeafs qi age, wrote an af-> 

?: a>:d agreeable little Ode upon the subject of 
Solitude) which comprehends the very essence of this 
philosophy. 

ODE ON SOLITUDE. 

: the man 'whose wish and care, 
A few paternal acres bound) 
Content to breathe his native air, 

In his own ground. 

IVhosc herds with milk, whose fields with breads 

.cks supply him with attire, 
IVhtsj trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter ', fire, 

H, who can unconcernedly find ', 
Hours, days, and years slide stft away, 
In health of body, peace of mind* 

Quiet by day* 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease. 
Together mix*d ; sweet recreation I 
And innocence, which most does please 
Wi th m edit a Hon . 

Thus let me live unseen, unknown. 

Thus unlamented let me die, 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie* 

To those who love a calm and tranquil life, the 
scenes of sensuality become more simple, peaceful, 
and less alarming ; to the worldly-minded, this held 



ON THE MIND AND TEE HEART. . 231 

is full of barren dreary places ; of noise and tumult ; 
vineyards and banquetting houses*, wanton dancings 
and infirmaries ; tombs upon 

and dark shades in which lovers meet, 3 lie 

mind of him who shuns such brutal joys,, such gross 
voluptuousness, the pleasures of sense are of a more 
elevated kind ; as soil as they are sublime ; as inno-. 
cent as they are pure ; and as permanent as they are 
tranquil. 

The disgust which flows from opulence disappears 
in the simplicity of rural life. The bosom learns to 
enjoy sensations very di; From ri- 

enced in this world. These then are 

rendered more free ; the feel the hear! 

pure ; neither overpowered by profusion, nor blunted 
by satiety. 

Petrarch one day inviting his friend, the Cardinal 
Colonna, to visit his retirement at Vaucluse, wrote 
to him, " If you prefer the tranquility of the country 
" to the tumults of the town, come here, and enjoy 
" yourself: do not be alarmed at the simplicity of my 
" table, or the hardness of my beds. Kings them** 
" selves are sometimes disputed with luxury, and 
" enjoy the pleasures of a more frugal repast. They 
" are pleased by the change of scene ; and occasional 
u interruption does not render their pleasures less 
" lively. But if you wish only to enjoy your acciis- 
u tomed luxury, what is to prevent your bringing 
" with you the most exquisite viands, the wines of 
" Vesuvius, dishes of silver, and every thing that can 
" delight the senses ! Leave the rest to me. I pro- 
" mise to provide you with a bed of the finest turf, a 
<; cooling shade, a concert of nightingales, figs, rai- 
u sins, water drawn from the freshest springs, and, in 

short, tvt it the hand of nature presents 

u to true pleasure. 

Who Would not. alas ! willingly renounce these 



232 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

things which only produce disquietude m the mind, 
for those which render it contented ? The art of occa- 
sionally diverting the imagination, taste, and passions, 
affords new and unknown enjoyments to the mind, 
and confers pleasure without pain, and luxury without 
Repentance. The senses, deadened by satiety, revive 
to new enjoyments. The lively twitter of the groves, 
?jid the murmur of the brooks, yield a more delicious 
pleasure to the ear, than the musick of theopera, or 
'he compositions of the ablest masters. The eye re- 
poses more agreeably on the concave firmament, on 
an expanse of waters, on mountains covered with 
rocks, than it does at balls, assemblies, and petit 
soufiers. The mind enjoys, in Solitude, objects which 
were before insupportable ; and, reclining on the bo- 
som of simplicity, easily renounces every vain delight. 
Petrarch wrote from Vaucluse to one of his friends, 
" I have made war against my corporeal powers, for 
" I find they are my enemies. My eyes, which have 
44 occasioned me to commit so many follies, are now 
u confined to the view of a single woman, old, black, 
u and sun -burnt. If Helen and Lucretia had pos- 
" sessed such a face, Troy would never have been 
" reduced to ashes, nor Tarquin driven from the 
a empire of the world. But, to compensate these de- 
" fects, she is faithful, submissive, and industrious. 
" She passes whole days in the fields ; and her shriv- 
" elled skin defies the burning sun, even in*the hottest 
" dog-days. My wardrobe still contains fine clothes, 
4t but I never wear them ; and you would take me for 
44 a common labourer, or a simple shepherd ; I Who 
44 was formerly so anxious about my dress. But the 
4< reasons which then prevailed no longer exist ; the 
11 fetters by which I was enslaved are broken ; the 
<c eyes which I was anxious to please are shut ; and 
" if they were still open, they would not, perhaps, now, 
44 be able to maintain the same empire over my heart* 



ON'THE MIND AND THE HBAKT, 233 

Solitude, by stripping worldly objects of that false 

eridour with which the imagination arrays them, 
destroys the vain ambition of the mind* Accustomed 

ur%l pleasure, and indifferent to every other, a wise 
man no longer feels power and dignities worthy of his 
desires. A Roman was overwhelmed with tears by 
being obliged to accept the Consulship, because it 
would, for one year, deprive him of the pleasure of 
cultivating his fields. Cincinnatus, who was called 
from the plough to the command of the army of the 
empire, defeated the enemy, possessed himself of the 
provinces, made his triumphal entry into Rome, and, 
at the expiration of sixteen days, returned to his 
plough. 

To be the inmate of ah humble cottage, or the own- 
er of a spacious mansion, to have evtry thing sump- 
tuously provided, or to be obliged to earn the means 
of subsistence, are not held in equal estimation by 
mankind. But let the man who has experienced both 
the one and the other of these situations, be asked, 
under which of them he has passed the most contented 
life ? Who cannot recount tue greater number of cares 
and inquietudes which are felt in the palace than under 
the roof of the simple cottaeer ? who can deny that, 
in the former, discontent poisons every enjoyment, 
and makes ease and superfluity a disguised misery. 
The Princes of Germany cannot digest all the poison 

ich their cooks prepare, so well as a peasant upon 
the heaths of Limbourg digests his buckwheat pi j 

1 those vvl from me in this opinion, will 

be forced to acknowledge, that there is great truth in 
the reply which a pretty French country girl made to 
a young and amiable nobleman, who solicited her to 
abandon her solitary, rural situation, and retire with 
him to Paris, " Ah! Monsieur le Marquis, the 
" we remove fiom ourselves, the greater is our dis- 
« tance from happiness." 

U 2 



234 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

A single passion, which we are neither inclined nor 
able to satisfy, frequently embitters our lives. There 
are moments in which the mind is discontented with 
itself, tired of its existence, disgusted with every 
thing, incapable of relishing either Solitude or dissi- 
pation, lost to all repose, and alienated from every 
pleasure. Time, under such a situation, although 
unemployed, appears horribly tedious ; an impene- 
trable chaos of sentiments and ideas prevails ; the 
present affords no enjoyment ; and we wait with im- 
patience for the future. The mind, in truth, w r ants the 
true salt of life, and without that, existence is insipid. 

But where is this precious salt to be found ? Is it ill 
the passion of love ? Love, without doubt, frequently 
preserves life, and sometimes gives it new vigour and 
animation ; but a passion which undermines and con- 
sumes us, can neither afford permanency nor tran- 
quility. The love capable of raising itself to the 
strength and power of being permanent, must descend 
into a sincere friendship, or it will destroy itself or its 
object, by adding fuel to a subtile flame, which will 
reduce the lover and beloved to a heap of cinders. 
The salt of life, therefore, must be extracted from a 
passion, which does not require the aid of another to 
support it ; which is capable of feeding itself ; which 
acquires new force the longer it continues ; and which, 
free and independent, raises the soul superiour to every 
thing that surrounds it. 

Solitude and limited desires afford a true happiness 
to the statesman who is cashiered from his office, or 
exiled from the state. Every great minister do@s not, 
indeed, retire from his employments, like JSTeckaRj 
through the portals of everlasting fame. But every 
one, without distinction, ought to raise their grateful 
hands to Heaven, on finding themselves suddenly con- 
veyed from the troubled ocean of publick life to the 
culm repose of their native fields, to the pastoral care 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEAKT. 235 

of their flocks and herds, under the shade of those trees 
which their ancestors planted. In France, however, if 
the minister incurs the displeasure of his sovereign, 
he is ordered to retire — that is, to retire to the estate 
which he has embellished and made a most agreeable 
retreat. But, alas ! this delightful retreat is to him a 
place of exile ; the situation becomes intolerable ; he 
no longer tastes its beauties with pleasure— .and sleep 
Hies from his eyes, since he is no longer his own mas- 
ter. The hesure he possesses renders him an impa- 
tient hypochondriac, whose mind turns with aversion 
from every object, and whose ill-humour tinctures ev- 
ery thing he sees. The disgrace of a minister, in 
France, is frequently fatal to his political existence.*-— 
But this is not the case in England ; there they felici- 
tate the minister on his retirement, as a man just re- 
covered from a dangerous distemper. He still main- 
tains many more and better friends than he before pos- 
sessed—for these are attached to him by sincere es- 
teem, while the former were attached to him only by 
their interests. May the great Governour of the Uni- 
Terse recompense Britons for the examples which 
they have given to us of men sufficiently bold and in- 
dependent to weigh every transaction in the scales of 
reason, and to guide themselves by the intrinsick and 
real merit of each cause ! For, notwithstanding the 
rashness with which many Englishmen have revolted 
against the Supreme Being ; notwithstanding the 
laugh and mockery with which they have so frequent- 
ly insulted virtue, good manners and decorum, there 

* " It is to this end" says one of our writers, " that 
disgraces, of almost every kind, conduct men. The cre- 
dit, authority and consideration which they before enjoy- 
ed, are like those transient fires, which shine during the 
night, and, being suddenly extinguished, only render the 
darkness and Solitude in which the traveller U involved, 
tnore visible," 



236 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

are many more among them who, especially at an ad- 
vanced period of their lives, perfectly understand the 
art of living by themselves ; who, in their tranquil and 
delightful villas, think much more nobly, and live with 
more freedom and dignity, than any ignorant or pre- 
sumptuous peer of parliament. 

It is said, that of tw isters who receive the 

publick thanks, or are forced by age to resign them- 
selves to retirement, there are always twelve or fifteen 
who finish their career by becoming gardeners and 
country gentlemen. So much the better for these 
ex-ministers ; for they, like the ex Chancellor 

De la RochE) at Spires, certainly possess much more 
content, with the xhovdavA the rak , than they enjoy- 
ed in the most prosperous houis of their administra- 
tion. 

Sentiments like these furnish, it is excellent 

theme to those who, ignorant of the manners of the 
world and unacquainted with men, are fond of morali- 
zing and of extolling a contempt -of hurt \ness. 
Rural innocence and amusement, th ixl simple 
pleasures of nature, and the snt of a cum con- 
tent, so arduously acquired, very seldom fern-, it is 
contended, any portion of those boasted advantages 
which this Solitude is said to possess. It is added, al- 
so, that a minister in office, though surrounded by 
endless difficulties, subject to incessant torment, oblig- 
ed to rack his brains and to employ every art and cun- 
ning to attain his ends— begins, by his success, to 
that he has attained what, until this pel io(^ he had ne- 
ver possessed, the character of master and sovereign ; 
that he is then enabled to create and to destroy, to plant' 
and to root up, to make alterations when and where he 
pleases — that he may pull down a vineyard and erect 
an English grove on its scite— make hills where lulls 
were never seen before — level eminences with the 
ground— -compel the streams to flow as his inclination 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEARf. 237 

shall direct— force woods and shrubberies to grow 
where he pleases — graft or lop, as it shall strike his 
idea — open views and shut out boundaries— construct 
ruins where ruins never happened — erect temples, of 
which he, alone, is the high priest — and build hermit- 
ages, where he may seclude himself at pleasure :— • 
That all this is not a reward for the restraints he for- 
merly experienced, but a natural inclination— since he 
may now give orders without being himself obliged to 
obey ; for a minister must be, from the habits of his 
life., fond of command and sovereignty, to the end of 
his days— whether he continues at the head of an ex- 
tensive empire, or directs the management of a poul- 
try-yard. 

To maintain that it is necessary to renounce the nat- 
ural passions of the human mind, in order to enjoy the 
advantages of Solitude, would, without doubt, not only 
be moralizing very awkwardly, but discover a great ig- 
norance of the world and of the nature of man. That 
which is planted in the breast of man must there re- 
main. If, therefore, a minister be not satiated with 
the exercise of power and authority ; if, in his retire- 
ment, he still retain the weakness to wish for com- 
mand—let him require obedience from his chickens 
whenever he pleases, provided such a gratification is 
essential to his happiness, and tends to suppress the 
desire of again exposing himself to those tempests and 
shipwrecks which he can only avoid in the safe har- 
bour of rural life*. An Ex-Minister must sooner 
or later learn to despise the appearances of human 

* " Marshal de Boufflers has retired to cultivate 
iC his fields," said Madame Main tenon : " i" am of 
<l opinion that this Cincinnatus would not be sorry to 
¥ be fetched from his ]i low. Jit his departure he charg- 
u ed us all to thing of him^ if any think was wanted 
u during Hi* abaense^ which may fterhajis continue fif- 
li iccn days." 



238 THE 1NFLUEKCE OF SOLITUDE 

nature grandeur ; for in his retirement he will per- 
ceive that true greatness frequently begins at that pe- 
riod of life which statesmen are apt to consider as a 
dreary void ; he will discover that the regret of being 
no longer able to do more good, is only ambition in 

guise : and feci that the inhabitants of the country, 
in titivating their c and asparagus, are a hun- 

dred times happier than the greatest. Minister. 

Under such circumstances it is only necessary to 
to be contented with one's self, to forget the superflu- 
> of life, and to render the little we posses as pala- 
. Thefirst year which Petrarch pas- 
sed at Vaucluse he was almost always alone,had no other 
company than his dog, no other servant than a nei; 
bouring fisherman, who served him with every thing 
Iiev wanted. The domestieks who attended him at 
Avignon, not being able to accustom themselves to this 
manner of living, quitted Ins service. Beside, he was 
badly lodged, having only one poor cottage for his re- 
sidence, which he afterwards rebuilt without any art, 
merely to render it tenantable, and even the traces of 
which no longer remain. His fare was coarse and 
frugal ; 1 that Matters the senses s is to be seen 

there. His best therefore called upon him 

very seldom, and when they came, their visits were 
very short ; others only visited him from the same 
charitable feelings which lead men to the chamber of 
the sick, or the dungeon of the prisoi r. He wrote 
to his friend Philip de Carrabole- Bishop of Ca- 
vqillon 3 who was then at Naples, u Let others run 
" after riches and honours ; let them be ?Vmces and 
" Kin^s ; I shall ne mpt to imped-: their ca- 

" reer. I am contented with the humble character of 
" Poet. And v d Bishop, will you con - 

" tinually wande^ from place to place merely 10 dis- 
" cover the mint? You know the snares! 

" which are laid in the Courts of Princes, the anxie- * 






GN THE MINB AND THE HEART* 239 



" ties which corrode the heart, the risques which are 
« run, and the storms to which life is exposed there. 
h Return therefore to your diocese, return to tranqui- 
V lity and repose. You may do this with honour, 
P while fortune smiles upon you. Yoir will these 
P find every thing you can desire. Leave superfluity 
*< to the avaricious. The rooms, although not dec©* 
If rated with tapestry, are cornmodiously furnished, 
v If our table is not sumptuous, yet we have some- 
" thing at least to satisfy hunger. Our hecb are not 
<{ covered with gold and purple, but v r e do not sleep in 
" them with less comfort. The hour of death ap- 
" proaches, and warns me to renounce all the extra- 
" vagant vanities of life. To cultivate my gardens is 
? now the only pleasure I pursue. I plant fruit-trees, 
" in hope that while I am fishing on my rocks, they 
" will cover me with their shade. But my trees are 
" old, and require to be replaced ; I must therefore 
" request that you will desire your attendants to 
<c bring me some plants of the peach and pear tree 
" from Naples. The enjoyments of my old age are 
P purchased hy labour ; and I live in the expectation of 
a future pleasures, which I intend to participate with 
" you alone : t'vs is what the Hermit on the banks of 
" the Sergue writes to you from the middle of the 
« forest." 

Solitude, however, will not procure us all these 
advantages, unless we renounce the mania of refining 
upon happiness. By endeavouring to make things 
better than they are, we forget all that is good. He 
who always views things on the unfavourable side, 
who wishes that all those things which are wrong, and 
which ought to remain wrong, were made right, vo- 
luntarily surrenders a large portion of his pleasures ; 
for without so great a number of Wronghead* in the 
World, life would not be half so entertaing as it is. 

To live happily, it is an excellent maxim to take 



£40 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

things just as they are ; or to admit, with a celebrat- 
ed German philosopher, as the foundation of all mora- 
lity, that it is our duty to do as much good as possi- 
ble, and to be contented with every thing as we find 
it. This species of morality is certainly founded in 
toleration and good nature ; but it is apt to degenerate 
too easily into a looser kind of philosophy,* which pro? 
duces nothing good, in daring minds, and does not 
render the people free. It is true, however, that there 
is no character in the world so unhappy as he who is 
continually finding fault with every thing he sees. 

My barber at Hanover, while he was preparing to 
©have me, exclaimed with a deep sigh, " It is terrible 
hot to-day." " You place Heaven," said I to hirn, 
" in great difficulties ; for these nine months last past, 
« you have regularly told me every other day, " It is 
* terribly cold to day." Cannot the Almighty,, then, 
any longer govern the Universe, without these gentle- 
men-barbers finding something to be discontented 
with ? " Is it not," I asked him, " much better to 
" take the seasons as they change, and to receive with 
i' equal gratitude, from the hands of God, the winter'* 
« eold and summer's warmth ?"— -" Oh ! certainly," 
replied the barber. 

I may, therefore, with certainty maintain, that 
competency and content are, in general, highly bene- 
ficial to mankind ; and that under many circumstances, 
Solitude favours both the one and the other. 

One of the advantages we still owe to Solitude is, 
that it enables us, by habit, to relinquish the society of 
men. For as it is impossible always to procure agree- 
able and interesting company, we soon lose the desire 

* " Let the world go as it pleases " says*an ingenious 
writer; w to do one's duty tolerably vj ell* ar.d speak al- 
ways in praise of the good Prior " is an ancient maxim 
of the mo?iks ; but it may lead the discipline of convents 
into a state of mediocrity* relaxation and coniemjn* 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 241 

to attain it ; and console ourselves with the idea that 
it is incomparably more easy to drive away languor 
and discontent in retirement than in the world. Be- 
sides, as it very rarely happens that on quitting a pub- 
lick assembly, we enter with great good humour into 
the examination of ourselves, this ought to be still ano- 
ther reason to induce us the more easily to renounce 
it. The less, therefore, we form connections with 
other men, the • more, we are qualified for an inter- 
course with ourselves, independent of all acquaintance 
with the world. 

It is frequently difficult to find an amiable and sen- 
sible character with whom we may form connections, 
and to whom we can freely communicate our thoughts, 
our pleasures, and our pains. In this case, nothing 
but employment and activity can divert our minds. 
The idle and unemployed not being able to drive away 
lassitude and discontent by yawning, expect that re- 
lief from the coming on of time, which the industrious 
enjoy every moment of their lives. The coldness of 
indolence freezes all the functions of the. heart ; and 
the dread of labour poisons every pleasure. Rut the 
■man who seriously adopts some useful course of life, 
who immediately executes whatever his* station calls 
upon him to perform, always enjoys a contented 
mind. To him the day appears too short, the night 
too long. Vexation and disquietude vanish from the 
breast of him who never leaves for the performance of 
to-morrow that which may be done to-day, who makes 
himself master of the present moment, and does not 
indiscreetly rely upon an uncertain futurity. 

A situation in a small village, or a country retire- 
ment, is best suited to this species of employment. 
The great world, is a scene of agitation from morning 
to night, although, strictly speaking, nothing is done 
during the day. In a small village, or more sequest- 
ered situation, the mind has time to think ; we view 

w 



242 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

every object with more interest ; and discharge every 
duty with higher pleasure. We do not read as the 
world reads, merely to say that we have read, but to 
enjoy and benefit by the good which our reading af- 
fords. Every thing we read in silence, in tranquility, 
sinks deep into the mind, unites itself more closely 
with cur thoughts, and operates more forcibly on the 
heart. A judicious use of time in such a situation, 
soon lessens our inclination to society, and, at length, 
we esteem ourselves completely happy in finding it 
totally extinguished. 

For this reason, the silence of the country proves, 
frequently, to the female mind, the school of true 
philosophy. In England, where the face of nature is 
so beautiful, and where the inhabitants are hourly ad- 
ding new embellishments to her charms, Rural Life 
possesses in itself inexpressible delights ; but among 
that active people, the love of Solitude is, perhaps, in 
general, much stronger in the women than the men. 
The nobleman who employs the day in riding over his 
estate, or in following the hounds, does not enjoy the 
Solitude of rural life with the same pleasure as his la- 
dy, who employs her time in needle-work, or in 
reading, in her romantick pleasure grounds, some in- 
structive or affecting work. In England, where ideas 
flow so rapidly, where, in general, the people love so 
much to think, the calm of retirement becomes more 
valuable, and the enjoyments of the mind more inte- 
resting. The learning which has at present so consi- 
derably increased among the ladies of Germany, 
certainly owes its origin to rural life ; for among those 
who pass much of their time in the country, who lead 
a life of retirement, and read only for their improve- 
ment, we find, in general, incomparably more true 
wit and sentiment than among the beaux esprits of 
the metropolis. 

How would those who occasionally reside in the 



ON THE MIND AND TUB HEART. 243 

country abridge the time of their residence in town, 
if they weighed and felt the advantages of a rural si- 
tuation ! The frivolous enjoyments of the metropolis 
would then vex and disgust their minds ; they would 
soon be discontented to see men employ time with so 
little improvement to themselves ; in running inces- 
santly after every thing that is strange, devoting their 
whole lives to dress, gaming, paying visits, without 
ever resigning themselves to those sublime reflections 
which elevate and ennoble the heart. Possessed of 
goodness, liberality, and simplicity, a country life^after 
having lived in town, affords so many opportunities of 
being happy, that it is impossible to be languid or dis- 
contented, provided we are neither negligent, idle, sick, 
or in love. 

How sweet, how consoling it is, in the tranquility of 
retirement, to call to remembrance our absent friends ! 
Ah, this remembrance alone makes us taste again in 
Solitude all the pleasures we have enjoyed in their 
society. — " You are far removed, but I am notwith- 
withstanding always near to you. There is the place 
where you used to sit. I have the identical chair still 
by me. You gave me that picture ; that charming, 
tranquil, landscape. With what soft effusion, with 
what a natural overflow of feeling and sentiment we 
enjoyed the view of that engraving, upon those lively 
images of a happy tranquility ! Is it possible to be un- 
happy, we may .exclaim, when we never live with 
higher joy, with greater activity, never feel the plea- 
sures of hope and expectation with more refined de- 
light, than when we are only one day's journey from 
each other I" — By the aid of these artifices of imagi- 
nation, these flattering illusions, which Solitude sug- 
gests, two friends, separated by the greatest distance, 
may live in continual intercourse with each other, even 
when separated by oceans ; when each no longer lis- 



34$ THE INFLUENCE ©F SOLITUDE 

tens to the voice, or distinguishes the approaching 
steps of the object he loves. 

Friends whom destiny has separated from each 
other, do not any where feel their sentiments so noble 
and refined as in tirose places where nothing- interrupts 
this soft intercourse, and where the pleasures of the 
world cannot interpose between their hearts. Mutual 
iii-humour, those rnortifi cations which a commerce 
vvith the world daily inflicts, and a number of little 
accidents, may sometimes lessen the delight which 
the company of the dearest friend would otherwise af- 
ford. In these unhappy moments, the mind is only 
influenced by the temporary feelings of the heart, and 
never once recurs to those friendly intercourses which 
once prevailed, when engaged in the most important 
atfairs, and to which it will soon again return 
forever. " Ke who until this time had attracted my 
love, now repels it by ill-humour ; and how many 
agreeable sentiments, how many of the most delight- 
ful pleasures of my life would be lost, if I were always 
to forget the past in the present, and to answer his 
X^eevishness by my ill-humour I A short vexation, and 
that little subacid humour which may sometimes arise, 
only obscures, for one instant 3 the flattering image un- 
der which my friend is accustomed to appear before 
rne, whose presence always raises such delightful 
tions in my heart, difluses felicity and pleasure 
over my life, charms every vexation from my breast, 
banishes my ill-humour, and who, until the present 
moment, has ever concealed his ill-humour from my 
view. This must be, without doubt, the privilege of 
intimacy. But friends ought not to wreak their dis- 
contents on each other ; friends who have, heretofore, 
shared together in all the misfortunes of life, who have 
mutually suffered for and endeavoured to relieve, the 
feelings of each other's breast. Friendship demands 
sincerity, but she also, in common benevolence, 



ON THE MI3D AND THE HEART. 245 

demands a mutual indulgence and accommodation ; and 
requires that mildness should be opposed to anger, and 
patience to ill-humour. This, however, can never 
happen, where each indulges the asperities of his tem- 
per, and, crossed by the embarrassments of life, be- 
comes peevish, forgets every attention and civility 
himself, and complains that they are not observed to 
him. But how quickly do all these inconveniences 
disappear in Solitude ! Solitude sanctifies the memory 
of those we love, and cancels all recollection but that 
which contributes to the enjoyments of Friendship ! 
Constancy, security, confidence, there appear again in 
all their brightness, and re-assume their empire in the 
heart. Every pulse of the soul beats in perfect har- 
mony : I listen with pleasure to my friend, he attends. 
to me in return ; although distant, he is always near 
to me ; I communicate to him all my thoughts, and 
all my sensations. I preserve, as sacred to cur friend- 
ship, all the flowers that he strews over the thorny 
path of my life ; and all those which I can perceive, 

I gather for him. 

Solitude not only refines the enjoyments of friend- 
ship, but places us in a situation to gain friends, whom 
neither time nor accident can take away, from whom . 
nothing can alienate our souls, and to whose arms we 
never fly in vain. 

The friends of Petrarch sometimes *.otetohim, 
apologizing for not having been to see him. " It is 
tl impossible to live with you," say they ; " the life 
" which you lead at Vaucluse is repugnant to human 
" nature. In winter, you sit, like an owl, witlTyour 
M face over the fire ; in the summer, you are inces- 
" santly running about the fields : seldom does one 
" find you seated under the shade of a tree. ,, — Pe- 
trarch smiled at these representations: " These 

II people," said he, " consider the pleasures of the 
" world as their supreme good j and conceive that one 

W 2 



246 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

" ought not to renounce them, I possess a number 
if of friends, whose society is extremely agreeable to 
" me. They are of all countries, and of all ages; they 
" are distinguished in war, in politics, and in the sci- 
" ences. It is very easy to acquire them ; they are 
" always at my service: I call for their company, 
" and send them away whenever I please ; they are 
i; never troublesome, and immediately answer all my 
Ci questions. Some relate to me the events of ages 
" past ; others reveal the secrets of nature : these 
" teach me how to live with happiness, and those how 
" to die in quiet : these drive away every care.by the 
" enjoyment they afford me, and increase my gaiety 
? by the liveliness of their wit; while there are others 
" who harden my heart against sufferings, teach me 
H to restrain my desires, and to depend only on my* 
M self. In one word, they open to me an avenue ta 
u all the arts, to all the sciences, and upon their in- 
4( formation I safely rely. In return for these great 
" services, they only require of me a chamber in one 
" corner of my small mansion, where they may repose 
t{ in peace. In short, I carry them with me into the 
" fields, with the tranquility of which, they are much 
" better pleased than with the tumults of the town." 

Love 1 the most precious gift of heaven, that happy 
sensibility from which arises every emotion of the 
heart, appears to merit a distinguished rank among 
the advantages of Solitude, provided we manage this 
powerful passion in such a manner that it may con- 
tribute to our happiness. 

Love associates itself willingly with the aspect of 
beautiful nature. The sentiments excited by the view 
of a pleasing prospect, inspire the tender heart with 
love, said in% higher degree than any other agreeable 
emotion of the mind. The female bosom becomes 
more susceptible under the silent shades, upon the 
summit of a lofty mountain; or, more especially, during 



GN THE MIND AND THE HEART. 247 

the stillness of a fine night ; and as a violent emotion 
always operates more forcibly upon the weakest parts, 
enthusiasm, sooner or later, draws aside and subjugates 
the heart. 

Women most certainly feel with more pxquisite 
sensibility than men, the pure and tranquil pleasures 
of rural life. They enjoy, in a much higher degree, 
the beauties of a lonely walk, the freshness of a shady 
forest ; and their minds admire, with higher ecstacy, 
the charms and grandeur of nature. There are many 
bosoms apparently insensible, in the atmosphere of 
the metropolis, which would, perhaps, open them- 
selves with rapture in the country. This is the reason 
why the return of Spring fills every tender breast with 
Love. " What can more resemble Love," said a 
celebrated German philosopher, " than the feelings 
" with which my soul is inspired, at the sight of this 
" magnificent valley, thus illumined by the sitting 

" St.il/' 

Rousseau felt an inexpressible pleasure on viewing 
the early blossoms of the spring : the arrival of thai 
season gave new life to his mind. The tender incli- 
nations of his soul increased at the sight of a rich car- 
pet of verdure ; the charms of his mistress and the 
beauties of the spring were in his eyes the same 
thing. His oppressed heart was relieved by an ex- 
tensive and pleasing prospect ; and his respiration 
was much easier while he indulged himself among the 
flowers of a garden or the fruits of the orchard. 

Lovers are best pleased with retired situations ? 
they seek the quietude of solitary places to resign 
themselves to the contemplation of the only object for 
whom they wish to live. Of what importance are all 
the transactions of cities to them, or any thing indeed 
that does not breathe or inspire the passion of lovf ? 
Obscure chambers, black forests of firs, or lonely 
lakes, where they may indulge their favourite reftec- 



2 48 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

tions, are tlie only confidants of their souls. Forests, 
filled with gloomy shades, and echoing to the tremen- 
dous eagle's cry, are the same to their minds as the 
liveliest champaign country ,where a lovely shepherdess 
may be seen offering her fostering bosom to the infant 
she is nursing, while at her side her well-beloved part- 
ner sits, dividing with her his morsel of hard black 
bread, a hundred times more happy than all the fops 
of the town. A man of sense, When in -love, feels in 
a higher degree, all that is elevated, pleasant, and 
affecting in nature. Nothing in the world creates a 
finer sensibility, even when the mind is destitute of it 
by nature, than love. 

The softest images of love spring up a new in So- 
litude. Ah ! how indelible are the impressions made 
by the first blush of love, the first pressure of the 
hand, the first feelings or anger against the imperti- 
nent intruder who shall interrupt the tender inter- 
course ! It has been frequently conceived, that time 
extinguishes the flame which love has once lighted 
in our breasts ; but love has agents in the soul that 
lie long concealed, who wait only for a proper mo- 
ment to display their power. It is the same with the 
whole course of youthful feelings ; and especially 
with every remembrance of our first affection ; deli- 
cious recollection ! which we love so fondly to trace 
back in our minds. 

The impression is indelible, the bosom for ever re- 
tains a sense of that highest extacy of love, which a 
connoisseur has said, with as much truth as energy, 
proclaims for the first time that happy discovery., that 
fortunate moment, when two lovers perceive their 
mutual fondness*. 

* No person has described the recollection of thatfireci- 
ous moment with so much harmony , sweetness ytenderne&i 

and sentiment^ as Rous se au. " Precious moments, so 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. Zi9 

A mind fond of reflecting in retirement on the pas- 
sion of love, and which has experienced its pleasures, 
feels again in these ever-recurring thoughts the most 
delicious enjoyments. Herder says, " He does 
" not know who the people in, Asia were, whose my- 
" thology thus divided the epochs of the most remote 
44 antiquity : That men, once more become celestial 
" spirits, were immediately beloved daring a thou- 
M years, first by looks, then by a kiss, afterwards by 
" alliance." This was the noble and sublime passion 
which Wieland felt, during the warmest moments 
of his youth, for a lady of Zurich, handsome, amiable, 
and sensible ; for that great genius well knew that the 
mystery of love begins in the first sigh, and expires, 
in a certain degree, with the first kiss, I therefore 
one day asked this young lady, when Wieland had 
-kissed her for the first time. " Wieland,' 5 replied 
the lovely girl, " kissed my hand for the first time 
" four years after our acquaintance commenced. 3 ' 

But the minds of young persons who live- ^retire- 
ment, do not, like Wieland, seize on the mystick re- 
finements of love. Listening attentively Xo all those 
sentiments which the passions inspire, less familiar 
with their abstractions, their minds seldom taken off 
by other ideas, they feel, at a much earlier age, in the 
tranquility of Solitude, that irresistable impulse to the 
union of the sexes which nature inspires, A lady of 
my acquaintance who lived upon the banks of the Lake 
of Geneva, in silent Solitude, and separated from all 
connexion with the world, had three daughters, brunes 
fiiquantes, all of them extremely beautiful in their 
persons, and equally amiable in their manners. When 
the eldest was about fourteen years of age, and the 

" much regretted I Oh I begin again your delightful 
" course ; fionv on with longer duration in my remem- 
" brance, if it be possible, than you (lid in reality in your 
u fugitive succession " 



#50 TJiE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

youngest was about nine, they were presented with a 
tame bird, which hopped and flew about their cham- 
ber the whole day. The young ladles required no 
other amusement, sought no other employment, ex* 
cept that of placing themselves on their knees, and 
with unwearied delight offering their lovely little 
favourite a piece of biscuit from their fingers for 
hours together, in order to lure him to their bosoms. 
The bird, however, the moment he had got the bis- 
cuit, with cunning coyness disappointed their expecta- 
tions, and hopped away. The bird died. A year 
after this event, the youngest of the three sisters said 
to her mother, " Oh, the dear little bird, mamma ! 
" if we could but procure such another !" — " No," 
replied her eldest sister, " what J should like better 
" than any thing else in the world, is a little dog. We 
" may at least be able to touch, to hug, to take a lit— 
" tie dog upon one's knees ; but a bird is good for 
" nothing : he perches a little while on your finger, 
" flies away, and there is no catching him again. But 
« with a little dog, O what felicity !" 

I shall never forget the poor religieuse in whose 
apartment I found a breeding-cage of canary-birds ; 
nor forgive myself for having burst into a fit of laugh- 
ter at the sight of this aviary. Alas ! it was the sug- 
gestion of nature, and who can resist what nature 
suggests ? This my stick wandering of religious minds, 
this celestial epilepsy of love, this premature fruit 
of Solitude, is only the fond application of one natural 
inclination raised superior to all others. 

Absence and tranquility appear so favourable to the 
passion of love, that lovers frequently chuse to quit 
the beloved object, and to reflect in Solitude on her 
charms. Who does not recollect to have read in the 
confessions of Rousseau the story related by Ma* 
dame de Luxembourg, of the man who quitted 
the company of his mistress only that he might have 



ON THE HINB AND THE HEART. 251 

the pleasure of writing to her ! Rousseau told Ma? 
dame de Luxembourg that he wished he had beerj, 
that man ; and he was right, In fact, who has ever 
loved, and does not know, that there are times when 
the pen expresses the feelings of the heart infinitely 
better than the voice with its miserable organ of 
speech, which is nothing, and expresses nothing ? 
Who is ever more eloquent than k* ers in those mo? 
ments of extacy when they gaze on each other, and 
are silent. 

Lovers not only feel with higher extacies, but ex- 
press their sentiments with greater happiness, in Soli- 
tude, than in any other situation^ What fashionable 
lover has ever painted his passion for an imperious 
mistress with the same felicity as the chorister of a 
village in Hanover for a young and beautiful country 
girl ? On her death, the chorister raised in the ceme- 
tery of the cathedral a sepulchral stone to her memory, 
and carving in an artless manner the figure of a Rose 
pn its front, inscribed these words underneath : 
{* C'est ainsi quelle f lit.'' 

It was under the rocks of Vaucluse, or in desalts 
still more solitary, that Petrarch composed his fin- 
est sonnets, deploring the absence, or complaining of 
the* cruelty, of his beloved Laura. In the opinion 
of the Italians, Petrarch wrote better upon the 
subject of love than all the other poets in the world 
before or since his time, whether in the Greek, Latin, 
pr Tuscan languages. " Ah J that pure and tender 
" language of the heart i" say they, " nobody pos- 
" sessed any knowledge of it but Petrarch* who 
" added to the three Graces a fourth, viz. the Grace 
" of Delicacy." 

But in lonely situations, in old rojaantick castles, in 
the heated imagination of impetuous youth, Love also 
frequently assumes a more outre and extravagant cha- 
racter. To warm enthusiastick minds, religion, love^ 



252 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 






and melancholy, make a sublime and whimsical com 
pound of the feelings of the heart. An ardent young 
man, when he is inclined that his mistress should be 
serious, takes from the Apocalypse the text of his 
first declaration of love ; for love, he exclaims, is but 
an eternal melancholy ; and when he is inclined to 
sharpen the dart within his breast, his exalted imagi- 
nation views the beloved object as the fairest model of 
divine perfection. 

Our two angels, in their ancient castle, no longer 
love like souls less pure and noble ; their sentiments 
more refined, are also more sublime. Surrounded by 
rocks, and impressed by the silence of a fine night, 
the beloved youth is not only a man, kind, rational, 
and honest, he is a God*. The inspired mind of the 
iond female fancies her bosom to be the sanctuary of 
love, and conceives Iter affection for the youthful idol 
of her heart, to be an emanation from heaven, a ray 
of the divinity itself. Ordinary lovers, without doubt, 
hi spite of absence, unite their souls with each other, 
write by every post, seize all occasions to converse 
with each other, or to hear each other speak ; but our 
female, more sublime, more exalted, introduces into 
her romance, all the butterflies she meets with, all the 
feathered songsters of the groves ; and, except per- 
haps her husband, she no longer sees any thing in the 
world such as it is. The senses are nothing ; refine- 
ment directs all her movements. She tears the world 
from its poles, and the sun from its axis, to prove that 

* " When the passion of Love is at its height," says 
Rousseau, " it arrays the beloved object in every possi- 
" ble perfection. ; makes it an idol, places it in heaven ; 
" and as the enthusiasm of devotion borrows the language 
" of love, the enthusiasm of love also borrows the lan- 
" guage of devotion . The lover beholds nothing but para- 
" dise, angels, the virtues of the saints, and the felicities 
H of heaven/' 



ON THE MI»B AND THE HEART. 253 

Stll she does, all she wishes, is right. She establishes 
a iiqw gospel and a new system of morality for her- 
self and her lover. These effects of Love cannot be 
avoided by any of the advantages of Solitude. Love even 
of the most tranquil kind, that species which lies silent 
in the breast., which does not raise chimeras in the 
mind, which does not resign itself to the delirium cf 
an ardent imagination, and which 'is not carried into 
these excesses, in time consumes the lover, and ren- 
tiers him miserable. Occupied by the idea cf one ob- 
ject, whom we adore beyond all others, all the facul- 
ties of the soul become absorbed, and we abandon a 
world which for us no longer possesses any charms. 
But when we find ourselves separated for ever from 
the lovely object who has made even the highest sac- 
rifice to us in her power ; who administered consola- 
tion under all the afflictions cf our lives, afforded hap- 
piness under the greatest calamities, a: ortecl us 
when ail the soul had abandoned us ; 
who continued a sincere friend when every other 
friend had left us, when oppressed by domestic sor- 
rows, when rendered incapable of either thought cr 
action ; then to 1 hful Solitude becomes 
our only pleasure. The night is passed in sleepless 
agonies ; while a dir;ust of life, a. desire of death, an 
abhorrence of all society, and a love of the most fi ight- 
ful desalts, prey j e heart, and drive us, day af- 
ter day, wandering as chance mey direct, through the 
most solitary retirements, far from the hateful traces 
of mankind. Were yever, to wander from the 
Elbe to the Lake of Geaeva, to seek relief from the 
north to the west, even to the shores of the sea, we 
should still be like the hind described in Virgil, 

u Stung with the stroke^ and madding with the fihin 9 
li She wildly Jlies from, wood to wood in vain ; 
M Shoots o'er the Cretan lawns with many a bound, 
* 4 The cleaving dart still rankling in the wound ! fi 
Virgil, Book IF. line 110. 

X 



254 THE INFLUEKCE OF SOLITUDE 

Petrarch experienced the accumulated toments of 
love in bis new residence at Vaucluse. Scarcely had 
he arrived there when the image of Laura incessantly 
haunted his mind, Ke beheld her at all times, in eve* 
ry place, under a thousand different forms. : Three 
4 times/* says he, « in the dead of night, when eve- 

* ry door was closed, she appeared to- me at the feet 
c of my bed with a certain look which announced the 

* power of her charms. Fear spread a chilling dew 
? over all my limbs. My blood thrilled through my 
' veins towards my heart. If any one had then en- 
4 tered my room with a candle, they would have be- 
{ held me as pale as death, with every mark of terror 
; on my face. Before day-break, I rose trembling 
4 from my bed, and hastily leaving my house, where 
' every thing excited alarm, I climbed to the summit 

of the rocks, ran through the woods, casting my 
continually around, to see if the form that had 

disturbed my repose still pursued me. I could find 

no asylum ; in the most sequestered places, where 
f I flattered myself that I should be alone, I frequenf- 
6 ly saw her issuing from the trunk of a tree, from 
\ the head of a clear spring, from the cavity of a rock. 
i Fear rendered me insensible, and I neither knew 

what I did nor where I went." 

To an imagination subject to such violent convul- 
sions, Solitude affords no remedy. Ovid, therefore, 
has very justly said, 

" But Solitude must never be allow' d : 

" A lover's ne'er so saje as in a crowd. 

« For private places private griefs increase ; 

" What haunts you there, in company will cease* 

" If to the gloomy desart you repair, 

" Your mistress** angry form will meet you there. H 

Ovib's Remedy ofLov$ { 



GN THE MIND AND THE HEART. 255 

Petrarch learnt from the first emotions of his pas- 
sion, how useless arc all attempts to fly from Love ; 
and he sought the rocks and forests in vain. There 
is no place, however savage and forlorn, where Love 
will not force its way. The pure and limpid stream of 
Vaucluse, the shady woods adorning the little valley 
in which the stream arose, appeared to him the only 
places to abate the fierceness of those fires which con- 
sumed his heart. The most frightful desarts, the 
deepest forests, mountains almost inaccessible, were 
to him the most agreeable abodes. But Love pursu- 
ed his steps wherever he wqnt, and left him no place 
of refuge. His whole soul flew back -to Avignon. 

Solitude also affords no remedy for love when it is 
injurious to virtue. To an honest mind, the presence 
of the beloved object is never, dangerous, although the 
passion may have taken a criminal turn in the heart. 
On the contrary, while absence and Solitude foment 
all the secret movements of the senses and imagina- 
tion, the sight of the beloved object destroys, in a 
virtuous breast, every forbidden desire ; for in absence, 
the lover thinks himself secure, and consequently 
indulges his imagination without restraint. Solitude, 
more than any ether situation, recalls to the mind eve- 
ry voluptuous idea, every thing that animates desire, 
and inflames the heart : no danger being apprehend- 
ed, the lover waiks boldly on in the flattering paths of 
an agreeable illusion, until the passion acquires a dan- 
gerous empire in his breast. 

The heart of Petrarch .was frequently stimulated 
by ideas of voluptuous pleasure, even among the rocks 
of Vaucluse, where he sought an asylum from love 
and Laura*, But he soon banished sensuality from 

* We read in a variety of hooks, now no longer known, 
that Petrarch lived at Vaucluse with Laura, and that 
he had formed a subterraneous passage from her house to 



256 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUD3 

his mind : the passion of his soul then became refined, 
and acquired that vivacity and heavenly purity which 
breathe in every line of these immortal lyricka he 
composed upon the rocks. The city of Avignon, 
where his Laura resided, was, however, too near 
him, and he visited it too frequently. A love like his 
never leaves the heart one moment of tranquility ; it 
is a fever of the soul, which afflicts the body with a 
complication of the most painful disorders. Let a lo- 
ver, therefore, while his mind is yet able to ccntrcul 
the emotions c^^k heart, seat himself on the banks 
of a rivulet, al ^^H^ ^at ms P ass * on > ^ e the stream 
which now preSfBKes itself with noise down the rocks, 
may in peaceful shades and Solitary bovvers, flow across 
the meadows and the plains in silence and tranquility. 

his own. Petrarch was not so happy. Laura was 
married, and lived with her husband, Hug ues de Sa- 
Dts at Avignon, the place of her nativity, and where she 
died, Sale was the mother of eleven children, which had 
so debilitated her constitution, that at Ijve and thirty years 
of age, no traces cf her former beauty remained. She 
experienced, also, inaoy domestic sorrows. Her husband 
was incapable of appreciating the value of her virtues, 
and the propriety of her conducts He was jealous with- 
out cause, and even without love, which to a woman was 
still more mortifying* Petrarch on the contrary, loved 
Laura during the course of twenty years; but he was 
never ty Ofered to visit her at her own house, for her hus- 
band sdd e>\ left: her a}©ae. He, therefore, had 
no opportunity of beholding his charming*' his amiable 
Laura, except r ;t church, at assemblies, or upon the pub- 
lick walks, and then never alone. Her husband frequently 
forbid her to walk even with her dearest friends, and his 
mind was rendered furious when she indulged in the slight- 
est pleasure. Laura was born in the year 1307 or 1308, 
and was two or three years younger than Petrarch. 
She died of the plague in the year 1348. Seven years 
after her death, her husband married again, and Pe- 
trarch survived her till about the commence meat of the 
year 1374. 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 257 

Love unites itself to tranquility, when the mind 
nits with humility to all the dispensations of hea- 
ven. If, when death bereaves a lover of the object of 
his affection, he is unable to live except in those places 
where she was used to dwell, and all the world besides 
looks desart and forlorn, death alone can stop the tor- 
rent of his tears. But it is not by yielding himself to 
the pressure of his affliction, that he can be sad to 
devote himself to God. The lover, when oppressed 
>rroW, constantly attaches himself to the object 
which Is no more, and never can return. Ke seeks for 
Vii never find ; he lisiensfRt hears nothing : 
hcies that he beholds the- loveTy form alive and 
Iwng, when it is only a phantom,' a visionary 
production of his heated imagination. He gathers ro- 
roai the tomb of iier on whom all the happiness 
: depended; he waters them with his tears, 
them with the tenderest cere, places them 
in his bosom, kisses them with rapture, and enjoys 
soothing fragrance with melancholy transport; 
but these pleasures also vanish ; the roses droop their 
heads, and die. It is not until the lover has long 
wrestled with the rigours of fate, until the arms have 
long been in vain extended to embrace the beloved ob- 
ject, until the eye has long fixed its view upon the 
cherished shade, until all hope of re-union is gone, 
that the mind begins gradually to feel its returning 
powers, assumes an heroick courage against its mis- 
fortunes, endeavours to conquer the weakness of the 
heart, and perceives the return of its former tranqui- 
lity* These cures, however, can only be effected in 
irous minds, who alone crown whatever they un- 
dertake with success ; vigourous minds alone find in 
Solitude that peace which the whole universe, with all 
its pleasures and dissipations, cannot procure. 

The victory which the virtuous Petrarch, ac- 
quired over the passion which assailed the heart, must 
X 2 



258 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

afford pleasure to every mind. When he sought re- 
fuge in Italy from Love and Laura, his friends in 
France used every endeavour to induce him to return. 
One of them wrote to him : ■" What daemon posses- 
44 ses you ? How could you quit a country where you 
44 have enjoyed all the delights of youth, and where 
u that graceful person which you formerly adorned 
44 with so much care, procured you so many pleasures? 
4; How can you live thus exiled from your Laura, 
^ whom you love with so much tenderness, and whose 
44 heart is so djjMlte afflicted by your absence ?" 

Petrarch replied : 44 Your anxiety is vain ; my 
" resolution is to continue where I am. I am here at 
14 anchor, and neither the impetuosity of the Rhone, 
44 nor the charms of your eloquence, shall ever drive 
" me from it. To persuade me to change this reso- 
" lution, you place before my eyes the deviations of 
€i my youth, which I ought to forget ; a passion which 
44 kit me no other resource than a precipitate flight, 
" and the contemptible merit of a handsome person, 
i which too long occupied my attention. The period 
i is arrived, when I must no longer think of those 
" follies ; I have left them behind me ; and I rapidly 
44 approach to the end of my career. My mind is 
u now occupied by more serious and important ob- 
<: jects. God forbid, that listening to your flattering 
%i counsel, I should again throw myself into the snares 
" of love, again put on a yoke I have already so se- 
*♦ verely felt ! It was consistent with the age of youth, 
" but I should now blush to be a subject of conversa- 
u tion to the world, and to see myself pointed at as I 
44 walk along. I consider all your solicitations, and, 
44 indeed, all you tell me, as a severe critique upon 
• my conduct. My love of Solitude takes root at this 
44 place ; I fly fromtown, and stroll at random about 
•" the fields, without care, without inquietude. In 
44 summer I stretch myself beneath the shade upon 



$N THE MINB AND THE HEART* 259 

" the verdant turf, or saunter on the borders of 
" a purling stream, and defy the heats of Italy, On 
" the approach of autumn I seek the woods, and join 
" The Muses train. This mode of life appears to 
" me preferable to a life at court ; a life occupied on* 
" ly by ambition and envy. I walk with pleasure on 
" the plains of Italy ; the air of the climate is to me 
" serene and pure. When death shall put a period to 
" my laboors, I only ask the consolation of reposing 
" m> head upon the bosom of a friend, whose eyes, 
" while he closes mine, will deplore my loss, and 
u whose kind care will convey me W a tomb in the 
" bosom of my country ." 

These were the sentiments, the phllosophick senti* 
ments ot 'Petrarch ; but he returned soon afterwards 
to Avigxon* from whence he continued from time to 
time to visit Vaucluse, 

Petrarch himself acknowledges, with that frank- 
ness which was natural to his character, how much 
his unsettled soul wavered between love an.d reason. 
From his retirement at Vaucluse he wrote to his 
friend PasFhengq, " Perceiving that there is no other 
" way to effect my cure than to abandon sI'/ionon, I 
" have determined to leave it, notwithstanding ail the 
" efforts of my friends to detam me. Alas ! their 
" friendship only tends to render me unhappy ! I 
" sought this Solitude as an asylum against the tern- 
" pests of life, and to live here yet a little while re- 
" tired and alone before I die. I already perceive that 
u I am near my end ; but I feel with infinite pleasure 
" that my mind is much more free ; and the life 
" which I lead here appears to me like that of the 
" happy in heaven. Observe, however, the preva- 
" lence of habit, and the force of passion ; for with- 
* out having any business, I frequently return to that 
" hateful city, I run voluntarily into the same snares 
<< by which I was first caught. An adverse wind 



S£8 TH2 INFLUENCE C? SOLITL'BE 

" drives me from the port which I have entered, upon 
" that troubled ocean where I have so frequently been 
" shipwrecked, I am no sooner there than I feel my- 
" self m a vessel tossed about by the tempest. I per- 
" celve the heavens on fire, the sea raging, and dan- 
« gers surrounding me oa every side. Death pre- 
" Bents itself to my eyes ; but what is still worse than 
« death, I turn from my present life with aversion, 
« and dread that which is to come." 

:?j2engd replied as a friend, who knew not only 
What Petrarch practised, but the kind of sentiments 
which would make him feel that which he was delight- 
ed to perform : " It is with pleasure I learn/' says he, 
w that you have burst open the doors of your prison, 
w shaken off your chains, and set yourself free ; that 
ic after a violent tempest yea have at last reached the 
" port you wished to gain, and ride safe in the harbour 
u of a quiet life. I can at this distance discover 
" every thing you do, day after &dy, in your retreat 
" at ¥/ 1 cluse. At the ea-i lest dawn of dzy> awaken- 
" ed by the warbles of your groves, and the murmurs 
K cf your spring, you climb the it covered 

th the dew, and from thence view the fertile 
w plains, the cultivated vallies, smiling at your feet 5 
" discovering, now and then, the distant sea bearing 
" the freighted vessels to their ports. The tablets 
" are ready in your hand, to note down the thoughts 
(< which fill your mind. When the sun rises above 
" the horizon, you seek your humble cot, partake of 
" a frugal repast, and enjoy undisturbed repose. To 
a avoid the meridian heat of the day, you retire into 
" the vales, where your delightful spring precipitat- 
* ing over the rocks with echoing sounds, pours forth 
" its wandering streams, and forms the charming 
" river which fertilizes the valley of Vaucluse. I 
" see the cavern through which the water, sometimes 
« low and tranquil, enters, and 'Where, even in the 



(IN THE MIN3 AND THE HEAP.?. 261 

" hottest day of summer, there breathes so fresh an 
f air. Within the shades of that grotto, whose arch- 
" ed and lofty roof hangs o'er the moving crystal of 
h the stream, I perceive you sitting, enjoying with 
M ravished eyes the enchanting view which lies before 
" you : your imagination warms, your soul tikes Ha 
" intellectual flight, and then you produce your choi- 
<: eest works. Thus retired, you consider sll the 
* vanities of this world as a light shadow which has 
" passed away, and quietly renounce them to a more 
" useful employment of your time. When you quit 
44 the grotto your tablets are full. Do not, however, 
u flatter yourself that you alone enjoy these treasures 
u of your soul : for mine, which never quits you, 
" participates with you in this useful and agreeable 
u enjoyment." 

Such was the felicity which Petrarch tasted at 
Vaucluse in the midst of so many danger? ; a feli- 
tiiy which love, too impatient for enjoyment, can 
never confer : but Solitude, judiciously employed, 
dissipates all the pangs with which this passion tears 
the heat, and affords a compensation for those plea- 
sures which it takes away. Nor are all the con- 
solations of life lost in Solitude to the bosom of an un- 
happy lover. He contemplates without regret the 
past pleasures of love ; those short-lived pleasures 
which can no more return. The time arrives when 
he ceases to weep and suffer, and on the bed of death, 
he exclaims with a tranquil sigh, " Oh ! lovely cb- 
" ject of my soul ! if you should learn my fate, a 
" love like mine may well deserve the tribute of a tear, 
" and call one gentle sigh from your relenting heart. 
" Forget my faults and while my virtues live, let my 
" follies die, within your bosom !" 

It was thus, in struggling against the prevalence of 
his passion, that Petrarch rose to that sublimity, 
and acquired that richness of imagination, which dis- 



252 THE INFLUENCE OH SOLITUDE 

tin gui shed his character. He acquired, even at this 
period, an ascendency over the age in which he lived 
greater than any individual has since, in any country, 
been able to obtain. His mind passed with the hap- 
piest facility from grave to gay subjects ; and he was 
enabled, when occasion required it, to adopt the bold- 
est resolutions, and perform the most courageous ac- 
tions. Petrarch, who at the feet of women wept, 
sighed, and sobbed like a child ; who only wrote on 
Laura the soft and languishing verses which his pas- 
sion inspired ; no sooner turned his eyes towards 
Rome than his style assumed a bold and manly tone, 
and his letters were written with all the strength and 
spirit of the Augustan age. Monarcbs*, while they 
read his lyric poetry, have forgot the calls of hunger 
and the charms of sleep. At a more advanced period 
of his life, however, he was no longer the sighing 
Muse of Love, who only chaunted amorous verses at 
the feet of his relentless mistress ; he was no longer 
an effeminate slave, who kissed the chains of an im- 
perious female, from whom he only received marks 
of contempt and aversion ; but with a republican in- 
trepidity Petrarch regenerated the love of liberty 
throughout Italy, and sounded the alarm against ty- 
ranny and tyrants. A great statesman, a profound 
and judicious minister, he was continually consulted 
upon the most important affairs then transacting in 
Europe, and frequently employed in the most arduous 
negotiations. A zealous friend to humanity, he en- 
deavoured upon all occasons to extinguish the torch 
of discord. Possessing an extraordinary genius, the 
greatest Princes solicited his company, endeavoured 

* Robert King of "Naples frequently relinquished the 
most serious affairs to read toe works of Petrarch, 
without thinking either of his meals or his bed. 



• N THE MIND AND THE HEART. 26$ 

to form their minds from his opinions, and studied 
from liis precepts the great art of rendering their sub- 
jects hzppy. 

By these traits we discover that Petrarch not* 
withstanding the violence of his passipn, enjoyed ail 
these advantages of Solitude. His visits to Vaucluse 
were not, as is generally conceived, that he might be 
nearer to Laura ; for Laura resided altogether at 
Avignon ; but that he might avoid the frowns of his 
mistress and the corruptions of the Court. Seated m 
his little garden, which was situated at the foot of a 
lofty mountain, and surrounded by a rapid stream, his 
soul rose superiour to the adversities of his fate. He 
possessed indeed, by nature, a restless and unquiet 
mind ; was frequently displeased because he was not 
at some distant place, to which it was impossible he 
could ever go ; frequently because he looked in vain 
for something which it was impossible he should find. 
Petrarch, in short, possessed all those defects which 
generally accompany n ien of genius. But in his nx> 
ments of tranquility, a sound judgement, joined to an 
exquisite sensibility, enabled him to enjoy the delights 
of Solitude superiour to any mortal that ever existed, 
either before or since his time ; and in these moments 
Vaucluse was to his feelings, the Temple of Peace, 
the residence of calm repose, a safe harbour against 
all the tempests of the soul. 

Solitude, therefore, although it cannot always con- 
quer Love, refines and sanctifies the most ardent 
flame. The passions which the God of nature origin- 
ally planted in the heart of man, ought to remain un- 
destroyed within his breast, but he should learn to 
direct them to their proper ends. If, therefore, you 
are inclined to be happier than Petrarch, share the 
pleasures of your retirement with some amiable cha- 
racter, who, better than the cold precepts of philoso- 
phy, will beguile or banish by the charms of convex 



£64 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

sation, all the cares and torments of life. A truly wise 
man litis said, that the presence of one thinking* being 
like ourselves, whose bosom glows with sympathy and 
love, so far from destroying the advantages of Solit 
renders them more favourable. If, like me, you owe 
your happiness to the fond affection of a wife, she will 
soon induce you to forget the society of men, by a 
tender and unreserved communication of every senti- 
ments of her mind, of every secret feeling of her 
heart ; and the employments, the business, the vi- 
cissitudes of life, will render, by their variety, the sub? 
jects of confidential discourse and sweet domestick 
proporfcionably diversified. 

The orator who speaks upon this subject with so 
much truth and energy, must have felt with 

be pleasures of domestick happiness.*-** 
cc Here," says he, " every kind expression is remenv 
ed ; the emotion of one hear;, re-acts with cor* 
" respondent, effects u other ; every thought 

" is treasured up ; every testimony of affection re- 
" turned ; the happy pair enjoy in each. other's com- 
" pany ail the pleasures of the mind, and there is no 
u feeling which does not communicate itself to their 
" hearts. To beings thus united by the sincerest af» 
" fection and the c ftendship, every thing that 

^ is said or done,, every wish and every event becomes 
" mutually important. Beings thus united, and they 
" alone, regard the advanti lich they sev 

H possess, with a j satisfaction lintinctured by 

" envy. It is only under such an union, that faults 
" are pointed out with cautious tenderness, : 
F out ill-nature ; that locks bespeak the inclination of 
" the soul ; that the gratification of every wish and 
" desire is anticipated f that every view and intention. 
^ is assimilated ; that the sentiments of the one con* 
H fprm to those of the other - 7 and that each rejoices 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 265 

« with cordiality at the smallest advantage which the 
£ other acquires." 

Thus it is that Solitude which we share with an 
amiable object procures us tranquility, satisfaction, 
heartfelt joy ; and the humblest cottage becomes the 
dwelling-place of the purest pleasure. Love in the 
retreats of Solitude, while the mind and the heart arc 
in harmony with each other, is capable of preserving 
the noblest sentiments in the soul, of raising the un- 
derstanding to the highest degree of elevation, of fill- 
ing the bosom with new benevolence, of rooting out 
all the seeds of vice, of strengthening and extending 
all the virtues. The attacks of ill-humour are by this 
means subdued, the violence of the passions moderat- 
ed, and the bitter cup of affliction sweetened. It is 
thus that a happy love renders Solitude serene, allevi- 
ates all the sufferings of the world, and strews the 
sweetest flowers along the paths of life. 

Solitude frequently converts the deep anguish of 
distress into a soothing melancholy* Every thing 
which operates with gentleness on the soul, is a salu- 
tary balm to a wounded heart. This is the reason 
why every malady of the body, every suffering of the 
mind, feels such sensible effects from the consolatory- 
expressions, the kind affability, the interesting anxie- 
ties of a virtuous wife. Disgusted, alas ! by the treat- 
ment of the world, and displeased with every thing 
around me ; when satiety bad weakened all the vigour 
and destroyed every energy of my soul ; when I no 
longer hoped for relief ; when grief concealed all the 
beauties of nature from my eyes, and rendered the 
whole universe a lifeless tomb, the kind attention of a 
wife conveyed a secret charm, a consolatory virtue to 
my mind. Oh 1 nothing can so sweetly soften ail our 
sufferings as a conviction that woman is not indifiev* 
to our fate. 

Y 



266 



THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUD^ 



Rural scenery, of a thousand different kinds, afford 
to the distracted bosom the same tranquility, which the 
attentions and conversations of an amiable wife procure 
to a sick and suffering husband, and change all the 
■afflictions of his soul, all the oppressions of his mind, 
into the softest sorrow and the mildest grief. 

Solitude frequently inspires a soft melancholy even 
in persons of the tcnderest years. Young females, 
from fifteen to eighteen years of age, who possess fine 
sensibilities and lively imaginations, experience this 
disposition, when, in the retirement of rural life, they 
feel the first desires of Love ; when wandering every 
where in search of a beloved object, they sigh for one 
alone, although their hearts have not yet fixed on any 
dar object of affection. I have frequently seen 
species of melancholy, without any other symp- 
toms of malady. Rousseau was attacked with it at 
Vev ai upon the banks of the Lake of Geneva. " My 
" heart," says he, " rushed with ardour from my bo* 
*f som into a thousand innocent felicities : melting to 
4C tenclerness ? I sighed and wept like a child. How 
(i frequently, stopping to indulge my feelings, and 
".seating myself on a piece of broken rock, did I 
li amuse myself with seeing my tears drop into the 
" stream i" I cannot myself transcribe these lines 
without shedding tears on recollecting, that in the 
seventeenth year of my age, I frequently seated my- 
* self with similar agitation under the peaceful shades 
of those delightful shores. Love relieved my paim ; 
Love, so sweetly enjoyed among the groves whicli 
adorn the banks of the Lake of Geneva* ; Love, the 

* There is no native, or indeed any person possessing 
sensibility, of whatever country he may be, who has ever 
beheld, without feeling the tenderest emotion, the delight- 
ful borders of the Lake of Geneva ; the enchanting spec- 
tacle which nature there exhibits ; and the vast and ma- 
jestick horizon which that mass of water presents to thi 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 267 

only disease which Solitude cannot cure ; and which 
indeed we willingly endure without wishing for relief. 
To suffer with so much softness and tranquility ; to 
indulge in tender sorrow without exactly knowing 
why, and still to prefer retirement ; to love the lonely 
margin of a limpid lake ; to wander alone upon broken 
rocks, in deep caverns, in dreary forests ; to feel no 
pleasures but in the sublime and beautiful of nature, 
in those beauties which the world despise ; to desire 
the company of only one other being, to whom we 
may communicate the sensations of the soul, who 
would participate in all our pleasures, and forget every 
thing else in the universe ; this is a condition which 
every young man ought to wish for, who wishes to 
fiy from the merciless approaches ot a cold old age** 

It is not, however, to every species of affliction that 
Solitude will afford relief. Oh ! my beloved Hirch- 
fisld ! I can never restrain my tears from flowing 
with increased abundance, whenever I . read, in thy 
immortal work upon the pleasures of a country life, 
the following affecting passage, which always sinks 
deeply into my heart : u The tears of affliction dry 
£i up under the sympathising breath of Zephyrs : 
" the heart expands, and only feels a tranquil sorrow. 
" The bloom of nature presents itself to our eyes on 
" every side ; and in the enjoyment of its fragrance, 

view. Who has ever returned from this scene without 
turning back his eyes on this interesting picture, and ex- 
periencing the same affliction with which the heart sepa- 
rates from a belovqd friend, whom we have no expectation 
ever to see again ? 

t This reflection of Petrarch is very affecting and 
very just. " Illos annos cgi tanta in requie, tantaque 
" dukedine ut illudferme tempus solum mihi vitajuerit^ 
n reliquum omne mpftUtium," 



268 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

" we feel relief from woe* Every sad and sorrowful idea 
" gradually disappears. The mind no longer rejects 
" consolatory meditations ; and as the evening sun 
" absorbs the clamp vapours of a rainy day, a happy 
w tranquility dissipates the troubles of the soul, and 
" disposes us to enjoy the peaceful charms of rural 
« life." 

There are, however, bosoms so alive to misfortune, 
that the continual remembrance of those who w r ere 
once dear to their hearts, preys upon their vitals, and 
by slow degrees consumes their lives. The reading 
of a single line, written by the hand they loved, freezes 
their blood : the very sight of the tomb which has 
swallowed up the remains of all their soul held dear, 
is intolerable to their eyes. On such beings, alas ! 
the Heavens smile in vain. The early violet and the 
twittering birds, proclaiming, with the approach of 
spring, the regeneration of all nature, bring no charms 
to them. The garden's variegated hues irritate their 
feelings, and they behold those retreats to which they 
were kindly invited to sooth the violence of their dis- 
tress, with horrour, during the remainder of their 
lives. They refuse to follow the compassionate hand 
extended to lead them from their house of sorrow, to 
the verdant plains of happiness and peace. Such 
'characters generally possess warm and strong pas- 
sions ; but the fineness of their feelings becomes a 
real malady ; and they require to be treated with 
great attention and with constant kindness. 

On the contrary, Solitude conveys most powerful 
charms to softer minds, although the loss they have 
experienced may not have been less. They feel their 
misfortunes in their full extent ; but their feelings 
partake of the tranquility of their nature ; they plant 
\mon the fatal tomb the weeping willow and the ephe- 
meral rose, as striking emblems of their sorrow and 
siisfortune j they erect mausoleums, and compose 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 269 

funeral dirges ; their hearts are continually occupied, 
by the idea of those whom their eyes deplore, and 
they exist, under the sensations of the truest and most 
sincere sorrow, in a kind of middle state between 
earth and heaven. Such characters, I am conscious, 
feel misfortunes to their full extent ; but their sor- 
rows, provided they are undisturbed, appear to me of 
the happiest kind. I do not pretend to say their sor- 
rows are insincere, or that their grief is less than that 
of those who give themselves up to fits of violence, 
and sink under the pressure of their misfortunes ; this 
would be a species of stupidity ; an enormity, of the 
consequences of which I am fully sensible ; but I call 
them happy mourners, because their constitutions are 
so framed, that their grief and sorrow do not dimin- 
ish the force and energy of their minds. They find 
enjoyments in those things from which minds of a 
different texture would feel aversion. They feel ce- 
lestial joys in the unceasing recollection of those per- 
sons whose loss they deplore. 

Every adversity of life is much more easily over* 
come in Solitude than in the world, provided the soul 

1 nobly bend its flight towards a different object. 
When a man thinks that he has no resources but in 
despair or death, he deceives himself ; for despair is 
no resource. Let him retire to his study, and there 
seriously trace out the consequences of some settled 
truth, and his tears will no longer fall, the weight of 
his misfortunes will grow light, and the pangs of sor- 
row fly from his breast. 

In Solitude, the most trifling emotions of the heart, 
every appearance of domestick felicity or rural pleas* 
ure, drives away impatience and ill-humour. Ill-hu- 
mour is an uneasy and insupportable condition, which 
the soul frequently falls into, when soured by a num- 
ber of those petty vexations which we daily experience 
in every step of oui progress through life ; but we 

y 2 



770 THE INFLUENCE OF $OLXTU*S 

need only to shut the door in order to avoid this scourge 
of happiness. Impatience is a stifled anger, which 
men silently manifest by looks and gestures, and 
>aveak minds ordinarily reveal by a shower of com- 
plaints. A grumbler is never farther from his proper 
sphere than when he is in company ; Solitude is his 
only asylum. 

Vexations, however, of almost every kind, are much 
sooner healed in the tranquility of retirement than in 
the noise of the world. When we have attained a 
cheerful disposition, and do not suffer any thing to 
thwart, restrain, or sour the temper of our minds ; 
when we have learned the art of vanquishing our- 
selves, no worldly vexations can then obstruct our 
happiness. The deepest melancholy, and most settled 
weariness of life, have by these means been frequently 
banished from the breast. The progress to this end 
is, in truth, much more rapid in women than in men. 
The mind of a lively female flies immediately to hap- 
piness, while that of a melancholy man still creeps on 
with pain. The soft bosoms of the fair are easily ele- 
vated or depressed ; but these effects must be produc- 
ed by means less abstracted than Solitude ; by some- 
thing that will strike their senses, and, by their 
assistance, penetrate to the heart. On the contrary, 
the mental diseases of men augment by slow degrees, 
take deeper root, lay stronger hold of the breas ,, and 
to drive them away, it is necessary to apply the most 
efficacious remedies with unshaken constancy ; for 
here, feeble perscriptions are of no avail. The only 
chance of success, is by exerting every endeavour to 
place the body under the regimen of the mind. Vi- 
gourous minds frequently banish the most inveterate 
evils, or form a powerful shield against all the darts 
of fate, and by braving every danger, drive away those 
feelings by which others are irritated and destroyed, 
^hey boldly turn, their eyes from wiutf things are, to 






ON THE MIN© AN® THE HfeA&T. 371 

what they ought to be ; and, with determined resolu- 
tion, support the bodies they are designed to animate, 
while weaker minds surrender every thing committed 
to their care. 

The soul, however, always yields to those circum-- 
stances which are most agreeable to its peculiar 
character. The gaming table, luxurious feasts, and 
brilliant assemblies, are the most palatable aliments, 
the most pleasing comforts to the generality of men ; 
while the bosoms of those who sigh for Solitude, from 
a consciousness of all the advantages it affords, feel no 
tranquility or enjoyment but in peaceful shades. 

These reflections upon the advantages which the 
heart derives from Solitude, bring me, at last, to 
this important question : Whether it is easier to live 
virtuously in Solitude or in the World ? 

In Society, the virtues are frequently practised 
from a mere sense of duty. The Clergy feel it their 
duty to afford instruction to the ignorant, and consola- 
tion to the afflicted. The Judges think it their duty to 
render justice to the injured or oppressed. The Phy- 
sician pays his visits to the sick, and cures them, ill, or 
well ; and all for the sake of Humanity , say these gen- 
tlemen. But all this is false : the clergy afford consola- 
tion, the lawyer renders justice, the physician cures, not 
always from the decided inclination of the heart, but be- 
cause he must, because his duty requires it, because the 
one must do honour to his gown, the other is placed in 
the seat of justice, and the third has pledged his skill on 
such and such prognosticks. The words u your known 
humanity" which always shock my feelings, and are 
introductory to the contents of a thousand letters I 
have received, are nothing more than the style of cus- 
tom, a common flattery and falsehood. Humanity is 
a vjrtue, a nobleness of soul of the highest rank ; and 
how can any one know whether I do such and such 



Vf% THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

thing's from a love of virtue, or because I am bound 
by duty to perform them ? 

Good works, therefore, are not always acts of vir~ 
tue. The heart of that man who never detaches 
himself from the affairs of the world, is frequently 
shut against every thing that is good. It is possible 
to do good, and not be virtuous, for a man may be 
great in his actions and little in his heart,* Virtue is 
a quality much more rare than is generally imagined. 
It is, therefore, necessary to be frugal of the words 
humanity, virtue, patriotism, and others of the same 
import - 7 they ought only to be mentioned upon great 
occasions ; for by too frequent use, their meaning is 
. weakened, and the qualities they describe brought in- 
to contempt. Who would not blush to be called 
learned or humane, when he hears the knowledge of 
so many ignorant persons boasted of, and the " weU 
known humanity" of so many villains praised. 

The probability is, that men will do more good in 
the retreats of Solitude than in the world* In faat, a 
virtuous man, of whatever description he may bej is 
not virtuous in consequence ot example, for virtuous 
examples are, unhappily, too rarely seen in the world, 
but because in the silence of reflection, he feels that 
the pleasures of a good heart surpass every other, and 
constitute the true happiness of life. The greater 
part, therefore, of virtuous actions, are exercised in 
silence and obscurity. 

Virtuous actions are more easily and more freely 
performed in Solitude than in the world. In Solitude 
no man blushes at the sight of virtue, but in the world, 
she drags on an obscure existence, and seems afraid 

* " Viri potest atibus sublimes" says Lord Chancellor 
Bacon, " ipsi tibi ignoti sunt. Et dum negotiis distra- 
it hunter, tempore carent, quo sanitati Qui corporis ayS 
" animz sua conmlant*' 



: 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 273 

to shew her face in publick. The intercourse of the 
world is the education of vice. Men possessed of the 
best inclinations ' are surrounded by so many snares 
and dangers, that they all commit some fault every 
day of their lives. One man, who plays a first rate 
character upon the theatre of the world, is deficient in 
virtuous inclinations ; in another, of the same class, 
his inclinations are good while his actions are vicious. 
In the chamber, before \# engage in the complicated 
business of the day, we are, perhaps, kind, impartial, 
and candid, for then the current of our tempers has 
received no contradiction ; but with the greatest at- 
tention, with the most scrupulous vigilance, it is im- 
possible to continue through the day completely 
masters of ourselves, oppressed as we are with cares 
and vexations, obliged to conform to a series of dis- 
gusting circumstances, to give audience to a multitude 
of men, and to endure a thousand absurd and unex- 
pected accidents which distract the mind. The folly, 
therefore, of mystick minds, was, in forgetting that 
their souls were subjected to a body, and aiming, in 
consequence of that error, at the highest point of spec- 
ulative virtue. The nature of a human being cannot 
be altered merely by living in a hermitage. The ex- 
ercise of virtue is only easy m those situations where 
is is not exposed to danger, and then it loses all its 
merit, God created many hermits too weak to save 
themselves when plunged into the abyss, because he 
rendered them strong enough not to fall into it. 

I shall here subjoin an excellent observation of a ce- 
lebrated Scotch philosopher — " It is the peculiar 
" effect of virtue to make a man's chief happiness 
" arise from himself and his own conduct. A bad 
« man is wholly the creature of the world. He hangs 
u upon its favour, lives by its smiles, and is happy 
« or miserable in proportion to his success. But to 
"a virtuous man, success in worldly undertakings is 



274/ THE INFLUENCE OT SOLITUDE 

ff but a secondary object. To discharge his own part 
" with integrity- and honour, is his chief aim. If he 
" has done properly what was incumbent on him to 
" do, his mind is at rest ; to Providence he leaves the 
11 event. His witness is in Heaven^ and his record is 
" on high. Satisfied with the approbation of God, and 
" the testimony of a good conscience, he enjoys him- 
" self, and despises the triumphs of guilt. In pro- 
" portion as such manly principles rule your heart, 
" you will become independent of the world, and will 
" forbear complaining of its discouragements." 

To recommend this independence of the world, is 
the first aim and only end of the little philosophy 
which may be found in this treatise upon Solitude. 
It is not my doctrine to lead men into the desarts, er 
to place their residence, like that of owls, in the hol- 
low trunks of trees ; but I would willingly remove 
from their minds the excessive fear of men and of the 
world. I would, as far as it is practicable, render 
them independent ; I would break their fetters, in- 
spire them with a contempt for publick society, and 
devote their minds to the love of Solitude, in order 
that they may be able to say, at least during the course 
of two hours in a clay, " We arejree" 

Such a state of independence cannot be displeasing 
even to the greatest enemies of Liberty ; for it sim- 
ply carries the mind to a rational use of Solitude. It 
is by the recollection of the soul, by the mind's 
strengthening itself in these pure and noble sentiments, 
that we are rendered more able and more anxious to 
fill our respective stations in life with propriety. 

The true aT>ostles of Solitude have said, " It is on- 
" ly by employing with propriety, the hours of a hap- 
^JN?y leisure, that we adopt firm and solid resolutions, 
££ to govern our minds and guide our actions. It is 
a there, only, that we can quietly reflect upon the 
^ transactions of life, upon the temptations- to which 



• N THE MINB AND THE HEART. 2? S 

" we are most exposed, upon those weaker sides of 
" the heart which we ought to guard with the most 
" unceasing care, and previously arm ourselves against 
" whatever is dangerous in our commerce with man- 
" kind. Perhaps though virtue may appear, at first 
" sight, to contract the bounds of enjoyment, you will 
" find, upon reflection, that in truth it enlarges them ; 
u if it restrains the excess of some pleasures, it favours 
" and encreases others ; it precludes you from none 
" but such as are either fantastick and imaginary, or 
" pernicious and destructive." — " The rich proprie- 
" tary foves to amuse himself in a contemplation of 
C£ his wealth, the voluptuary in his enter tainments ? 
P the man of the world with his friends and his assem- 
P biies ; but the truly go'od man finds his pleasure in 
(: the scrupulous dischargespf the august duties of 
" life. He sees a new surf shining before him ; thinks 
" himself surrounded by a more pure and lively splen- 
" dour; every object is embellis.iJ^ and he gaily 
" pursues his career. He who penetrates into the se- 
a cret causes of things, who reads in the respectable 
" obscurity of a wise Solitude, will return us publick 
li thanks. We immediately acquit ourselves more 
" perfectly in business, we resist with greater ease 
" the temptations of vice, and we owe all these ad- 
" vantages to the pious recollection which Solitude 
" inspires, to our separation from mankind, and to 
" our independence of the world." 

Liberty, leisure, a quiet conscience, and a retire- 
ment from the world, are, therefore, the surest and 
most infallible means to arrive at virtue. Under such 
circumstances, it is not necessary to restrain the pas- 
sions merely to prevent them from disturbing the 
publick order, or to abate the fervour of imagination ; 
for in our review of things, we willingly leave them 
as they are, because we have learned to laugh at their 
absurdity. Domestick Hie is no longer, as in the gay 



%'7b THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

world, a scene of languor and disgust, the field of 
battle to every base and brutal passion, the dwelling v 
of envy, vexation and ill-humour. Peace and happi- 
ness inhabit those bosoms that renounce the poisonous 
springs of pleasure ; and the mind is thereby render- 
ed capable of communicating its purest joys to all 
around. He who shuns the contaminated circles of 
the vicious, who flies from the insolent looks of proud 
stupidity and the arrogance of successful villainy ; 
who beholds the void which all the idle entertainments 
and vain pretensions of publick life leave within the 
breast, is never discontented or disturbed at home. 

The pleasures of the world lose their charms on 
every sacrifice made in Solitude at the altar of Virtue. 
" I love rather to shed tears myself than to make 
cc others shed them," said a German lady to me one 
day. She did not seem conscious that it is almost 
impossible either to say or do any thing more gene- 
rous. Virtue like tins affords more real content to 
the heart than all the amusements which are hourly 
nought to destroy time, and steal the bosom from it- 
self. The mind is always happy in finding itself capa- 
ble of exercising faculties which it was not before con- 
scious it possessed. Solitude opens the soul to every 
noble pleasure ; fills it with intelligence, serenity, calm- 
ness, and content, when we expected nothing but 
tears of sorrow ; and repairs every misfortune by a 
thousand new and unalterable delights. 

There is not a villian in existence whose mind does 
not silently acknowledge that Virtue is the corner 
stone of all felicity in the world, as well as in Solitude. 
Vice, however, is continually spreading her silken 
nets ; ensnaring multitudes of every rank and every star 
tion. To watch all the seductive inclinations of the heart, 
not only when they are present, but while they yet lie 
dormant in the breast, to vanquish every desire by em- 
ploying the mind in the pursuit of noble pleasures, has 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 277 

ever been considered the greatest conquest which the 
soul is capable of gaining- over the world and itself ; 
and inward peace has ever been the price fc of this 
victory. 

Happy is the man who carries with him into Soli- 
tude, this inward peace of mind, and there preserves 
it unaltered. Of what service would it be to leave the 
town, and seek the calmness and tranquility of retire- 
ment, if misanthropy still lurks within the heart, and 
we there continue oilr sacrifices to this fatal passion ? 
Divine content, a calm and open countenance, will, 
in such circumstances, be as difficult to find in the 
flower-enamelled meadows, as in the deepest night of 
Solitude, or, in the silent shades of obscure cells. 
To purify and protect the heart is the first and last du- 
ty which we have to perform in Solitude : this task 
once accomplished, our happiness is secure, for we 
have then learned the value of the tranquility,' the lei- 
sure, and the liberty we enjoy. Hatred to mankind 
ought not to be the cause of our leaving the world ; 
we may shun their society, and still maintain our 
wishes for their felicity. 

An essential portion of the happiness which we 
taste in Solitude arises from our ability to appreciate 
things according to their true value, independently of 
the publick opinion. When Rome, after the conquest 
of the Pirates, removed Lucullus from the head of 
the army, in order to give the command of it to Pom- 
pey, resigning by this act the government of the em- 
pire to the discretion of a single man, that artful 
citizen beat his breast, as a sign of grief at being in- 
vested with the honour, and exclaimed " Alas is-there 
u no end to my conflicts ? How much better would it 
* c have been to have remained one of the undistin- 
" guished Many, than to be perpetually engaged, in 
« war, and have my body continually locked in ar- 
« mour ! Shall I never be able to fly from envy to a 



273 ON THE MIND AND THE HEART, 

" rural retreat, to domestic!* happiness, and conjugal 
" endearments r 33 —- Pglif: his true sent tments 

in the language of dissimulation ; for he Lad not yet 
learned really to esteem that, which all men possessed 
of native ambition and the lust of power despise ; nor 
did he yet contemn that which at this period of the re-? 
pubiick every Roman who w T as eager to" command es- 
teemed more than all other things ; unlike Maniis 
Curius, the greatest Roman of his age, who, after 
having vanquished several warlike nations, driven 
Pyrrhus out of Italy, and enjoyed three times the 
honours of a triumph*, retired to his cottage in the 
country? and with his own victorious hands cultivated 
his little farm. To this spot the Ambassadors of the 
termites came to offer him a large present of gold, 
and found him seated in the chimney corner dressing 
turnips f. ' 

No king or prince was ever so happy as was Man* 
ius Curius in the humble employment of dressing 
his turnips. Princes know too well that under many 
circumstances they are deprived of friends : and this 
is the reason why they ask the advice of many, but 
Confide in none. The honest subjects of a nation, 
every man of reflection and good sense, pities the con- 
dition of virtuous Sovereigns : for even the best of 
Sovereigns are not altogether exempt from fears, jea- 
lousies, and torments. Their felicity never equals 

* Manius Curius Dentatus triumphed twice in his 
first Consulate in the 463d year of Rome ; first over the 
SamniteS) and afterwards over the Sabines ; and eight 
years afterwards, in his third Consulate, he triumphed 
over Pyrrhus. After this he led up the less Triumph, 
called Ovation, for his victory over the Lucanians. 

f Dentatus absolutely refused the present, and gave 
the Ambassadors this answer : " A man who can be satis- 
" fied with such a supper has no need of gold ; and I 
" think it more glorious to conquer the owners of it thai) 
<J to possess it myself." 



THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 2?9 

that of a laborious and contented husbandman: their 
pleasures are not so permanent; they never experi- 
ence the same tranquility and content. The provis- 
ions of a peasant are coarse, but to his appetite they 
are delicious : his bed is hard, but he goes to it 
fatigued by the honest labours of the day, and sleeps 
sounder oil his mat of straw than monarchs* on their 
beds of down. 

The pleasures of Solitude are enjoyed by every des- 
cription of men, without exception of rank or fortune. 
The freshness of the breeze, the magnificence of the 
forests, the rich tints of the meadows, the inexhausti- 
ble variety which summer spreads over the face of all 
nature, enchant not only"philosaphers, Rifles, and he- 
roes, but the beautiful picture ravishes the mind of 
the most ignorant spectator with exquisite delight. 
An English author has very justly observed, " It is 
" not necessary that he who looks with pleasure on 
" the colours of a flower should study the principles 
a of vegetation, or that the Ptokmaick and Cojiernican 
" system should b@ compared, before the light of the 
" sun can gladden, or its warmth invigourate. Novel- 
" ty is itself a source of gratification ; and Milton 
" jvstly observes, that to him who has been long pent 
" up in cities, no rural object can be presented which 
" will not delight or refresh some of his s 

Exiles themselves have frequ'i. iy felt the advanta- 
ges and enjoyments of Solitude. To supply the place 
of the world from which they are banished, they cre- 
ate in retirement a new world for themselves ; forget 
those factitious pleasures exclusively attached to the 
^condition of the great ; habituate themselves to 
others of a nobler kind, more worthy the attention of a 
rational being* ; and to pass their days in tranquility, 

* Cicero says, " Mult a firaclare Dionysius Pha- 
u lereus in illo exilio acrifisit^ non in usum aliguen 
n uni, quo erator balus ; sed anbni cult US illc^ erat (i 
u quad quidam humanitaUs cibus." 



289 ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 

' find out a thousand little felicities, which are only to 
be met with at a distance from all society, far removed 
from all consolation, far from their country, their fa- 
mily, and their friends. 

But to procure happiness, Exiles, like other men, 
must fix their minds upon some one object ; they 
must adopt some particular pursuit capable of creating 
future hopes or of affording immediate pleasure. Ex- 
iles, alas ! aspire to the attainment of happiness, and 
would still live for the sake of virtue, 

Maurice, Prince of Isenbourg, distinguished him- 
self by his courage, during a service of twenty years, 
under Ferdinand Duke of Brunswick and Marshal 
Broglio, in the wars between the Russians and the 
Turks. Health and repose were sacrificed to the 
gratification of his ambition and love of glory. Dur- 
ing his service in the Russian army he fell under the 
displeasure of the Empress, and was sent into exile. 
The nature of exile in Russia is well known ; but he 
contrived to render even a Russian banishment agree- 
able. At first, his mind and his body were oppressed 
by the sorrows and disquietudes of his situation ; and 
his life became a mere shadow. The little work writ- 
ten by Lord Bolingbroxe upon Exile fell acciden- 
tally into his hands. He read it several times ; and 
" in proportion to the number of times I read," said 
the Prince, in the preface of the elegant and nervous 
translation which he made of the work, " I felt all my 
M sorrows and disquietudes vanish." 

The treatise of Lord Bolingbroke upon the sub- 
ject of Exile is a master-piece of stoic philosophy and 
fine writing. He there boldly examines adversities of 
his past and present life. Instead of flying from tKem, 
or enduring them with lingering and shameful pa- 
tience, he endeavours to conquer them. Instead of 
palliatives, he advises the knife and the caustick ; he 









THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 28 1 

probes the wcuud to the bottom to obtain a radical 
cure. 

The mind, without doubt, strengthens its powers 
under the circumstances of perpetual .banishment in 
the same manner as in uninterrupted Solitude : and 
habit supplies the necessary power to support its mis- 
fortune. To exiles who are inclined to indulge all the 
pleasing emotions of the heart, Solitude, indeed, be- 
comes an easy situation ; for they there experience 
pleasures which were before unknown ; and from that 
moment forget those which they tasted in the happier 
situations of life. When Brutus saw Marc ellus 
in exile at Mytelene, he found him surrounded by the 
highest felicity of which human nature is susceptible, 
and devoted, as before his banishment, to the study of 
every useful science. The sight made so deep an. im- 
pression on his mind, that when he was again return- 
ing into the word, he felt that it was Brutus who 
was going into exile, and not Marc ellus whom he 
left behind. 

Some years before Quintus Metellus Numidus 
suffered the same fate, at the time when the people 
conducted by Marius laid the foundation of that ty- 
ranny which Cjesar afterwards erected, Metellus 
singly in the midst of an alarmed senate, and surroun- 
ded by an enraged populace, refused to take the oath 
imposed by the pernicious la\vs of the Tribune Sat* 
urninus. His immoveable firmness was considered 
a crime, and exile was its punishment. A mad and 
furious party gained the ascendancy. The most vir- 
tuous of the citizens, indeed, took up arms in his de- 
fence, resolutely determined to perish rather than live 
to see their country deprived of so much virtue ; but 
this generous Roman, who had resisted all the exhor- 
tations of his friends not to expose himself to the 
dreadful penalties of his refusal, thought it a duty 
which he owed to the laws not to sutler any sedition 
Z 2 



282 ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 

to take place ; be contented himself with lamenting 
that frenzy which had seized the public mind, as Pla- 
to had before lamented the madness pf the Athe- 
nians : " Either matters," said he, " will take a better 
" turn, and the people repent and recall me, or, if they 
" continue the same, it will be best to be at a distance 
" from Rome." Without regret therefore he resigned 
himself to banishment, fully convinced of its advanta- 
ges to a heart incapable of finding repose except on 
foreign shores ; a heart which, if he had continued at 
Rome, must have been incessantly torn to pieces by 
the sight of a miserable senate and an expiring re- 
publick. 

Rutilius also withdrew himself from the corrupt- 
ed city of Rome with equal contempt for the senti- 
ments and the manners of the age. He had defended 
Asia against the extortions of the Collectors. This 
generosity irratated the Equestrian order, and motives 
equally base exasperated Marius' party against him. 
The most virtuous and innocent citizen of the repub- 
lick was accused of corruption, and dragged to the bar 
of justice by the vile and infamous Apicius. The 
authours of this unfounded prosecution sat in judgment 
on Rutilius, who was of course most unjustly con- 
demned, for he scarcely condescended to defend the 
cause. Seeking an asylum in Asia, this venerable 
Roman, whose ungrateful country was ignorant of his 
merit, was received there with every mark of affection 
and respect. Before the term of his banishment ex- 
pired, he shewed still greater contempt to Rome : for 
when Sylla would have recalled him, he not only re- 
fused to return, but made the place of his residence at 
a greater distance. 

To all these instances of happy and contented ex- 
iles, CicERois a memorable exception. He possess- 
ed all the resources, all the sentiments necessary to 
draw the greatest advantages from Solitude ; but he 



THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 283 

had not sufficient strength of mind to support himself 
under the adversity of banishment. Cicero, the sa- 
viour of his country, during his prosperity was neither, 
deterred by the menaces of a dangerous faction, nor 
alarmed at the poignard of the assassin ; but his cour- 
age failed him when his misfortunes commenced* 
He had before lamented the weakness of his constitu- 
tion, but after exile, he became quite dejected, and 
when that once happens, all power of mind is gone ; 
the soul immediately loses all its energies, and be- 
comes equally incapable of suggesting vigourous mea- 
sures, or of performing heroick actions. Cicero and 
his melancholy have dishonoured both Exile and Soli- 
tude. Not knowing where to go or what to do, as timo- 
rous as a female, as capricious as a child, he regretted the 
loss of his rank, his riches, and his power. He wept over 
the ruins of his house, which the fury of Clodius had 
levelled with the ground ; and poured forth groans lor 
the absence of Tarentia, whom he soon afterwards' 
repudiated. Such are the fatal effects of a melancholy 
mind : it deplores, with bitter lamentation, the loss of 
those things in the possession of which it places no 
value. The friends and enemies of Cicero united in 
believing that misfortune had disordered his brain. 
C-&SAR saw, with secret satisfaction, the man who had 
refused to be his colleague, weep under the scourge 
of Clodius. Pompey hoped that his ingratitude 
would be effaced by the contempt to which the iriend 
he so carelessly abandoned, exposed himself. Even 
Atticus, whose highest gratification was usury and 
magnificence, who without connecting himself to any 
party was intimate with all, blushed for the conduct 
of Cicero, thought that he attached himself too ser- 
vilely to his former fortunes, and reproached him with 
the severity of a Cato. Solitude lost all its influence 
over Cicero, because weak and melancholy senti- 
ments continually depressed his mind, and turned the 



284 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

worst side of every object to his view. He died, how- 
ever, like a hero, and not like a dejected coward. — 
" Approach, old Soldier," cried. he from his litter to 
Pompilius Loenas, his client and murderer, " and, .if 
" you have the courage, take my life." 

A man under the adversity of banishment, cannot 
hope to see his days glide quietly away in rural de- 
lights and philosophick repose, except he has honour- 
ably discharged thofe duties which he owed to the 
world, and given that bright example to future ages, 
which every character exhibits who is as great after 
his fall, as he was at the most brilliant period of his 
prosperity. 

Solitude affords an unalterable felicity under the 
pressures of old age, and in the decline of life. The 
life of man is a voyage of short duration, and his old 
age a fleeting day. The mind is enabled by Solitude 
to forget the tempests of which it was so long the sport : 
Old age, therefore, if we consider it as the time of 
repose, as an interval between the affairs of this world 
and the higher concerns of death, an harbour, from 
whence we quietly view rocks on which we were in 
danger of being wrecked, is, perhaps, the most agree- 
able period of our lives. 

The human mind is in general anxious to draw its 
knowledge from every distant object, before it applies 
to its own resources. We therefore frequently begin 
our travels in other nations, before we have seen what- 
ever is interesting in our own. But discreet youth 
and experienced age conduct themselves upon differ- 
' ent principles. To both the one and the other, Soli- 
tude and self-examination are the beginning and the 
end of Wisdom. If Solitude depresses the spirits of 
youth, and renders manhood melancholy, it frequent- 
ly drives away the depression which accompanies old 
age. 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART* 28$ 

The history of our first entrance into life consists 
of a continual succession of hopes, wishes and illu- 
sions : the succeeding years are an age of vexation 
,and sorrow. But the mind of a man who has learnt 
wisdom from experience, cannot fee either shaken or 
surprised. He who is no longer obliged to labour 
for the means of supporting life, and who has been 
long acquainted with the secret practices and sinister 
dealings of the world, makes no complaint of the in- 
gratitude with which his labours and anxiety have 
been rewarded ; all he asks for is tranquility and re- 
pose ; and if he has made any advances in the know- 
ledge of himself, if he has been obliged, at an early 
period of his life, to become wise, he reckons every 
thing else of no value. 

It is a very just observation of a celebrated German, 
that there are political as well as religious Chartreux^ 
and that both the one and the other Order are fre- 
quently the best and most pious of men. . " It is with- 
" in the most retired shades of the forest," says this 
writer, " that we meet with the peaceful sage and 
" tranquil observer, the friend of truth, the lover of 
" his country, who neither deifies nor calumniates. 
" Mankind admire his wisdom, enjoy the beams of his 
" knowledge, adore his love of truth, and his affection 
" to his fellow-creatures. They are anxious to gain 
" his confidence and his friendship ; and are as much 
" astonished at the wisdom which proceeds from his 
" lips, and the rectitude which accompanies all his. 
M actions, as they are at the obscurity of his name, 
u and the mode of his existence. They endearour 
" to draw him from his Solitude, and place him on 
" the throne ; but they immediately perceive inscribed 
u upon his forehead, beaming with sacred fire, " Odi 
" jirqfanum vulgus et arceo" and, instead of being his 
" seducers, they become his Proselytes ." 



285 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

But, alas ! this political Chartreuse is no more. I 
saw him formerly iri Weteravia. His animated figure, 
while it announced the highest degree of wisdom and 
the happiest tranquility, filled my bosom with respect 
and filial love. There did not, perhaps, at that time, 
exist a character more profound in any German 
Court ; he was intimately acquainted with all, and 
corresponded personally with some of the most cele- 
brated Sovereigns of Europe. I never found, in any 
situation, an observer who penetrated with so much 
skill and certainty into the thoughts and actions of oth- 
er men ; who had formed such true opinions of the 
world in general, and of those who played the most 
important characters on its theatre ; never was a mind 
more free, more open, more energetick, or more mild : 
an eye more lively and penetrating : I never, in short, 
knew a man in whose company I could have lived with 
higher pleasure, or died with greater comfort* The 
place of his retirement in the country was modest and 
simple ; his grounds without art, and his table frugal. 
The charm which I felt in this retreat of Weteravia, 
the residence of the venerable Baron de Schauten- 
bacii, is inexpressible. 

Did youth ever possess more energy and Sre, were 
the hours of Solitude ever better employed, than by 
Rousseau during the latter years of his life ? It was 
in his old age that he wrote the greater and the best 
parts of his works. The poor philosopher, when he 
felt himself verging to the period of his existence, en- 
deavoured to find tranquility of heart among the shades 
of Solitude ; but his endeavours were in vain. Rous- 
seau had experienced too frequently the fury of those 
who are enemies to truth ; his feelings had been too 
frequently exposed to the severest and most unremit- 
ted persecutions. Before he discovered the danger of 
his situation, he had suiered, as well from his weak 
Destitution as from the little care he had taken of his 



ON THE MIND ANB THE' HEART.'' 28f 

health, a long and painful sickness. In the last years 
of his life the effects of melancholy- and chagrin were 
more apparent than ever* Tie. frequently fainted, and 
talked wildly when he was ill. " All that Rousseau 
v wrote during his old age," says one of our refined 
criticks, " was nonesense." — " Yes," replied his fair 
friend with greater truth, i£ but he wrote nonsense so 
" agreeably, that we sometimes like to talk nonsense 
" with him." 

Old age appears to be the properest season of me^ 
ditation. The ardent fire of youth is stifled* the 
meridian heat of life's shot* day is passed, and suc- 
ceeded by the soft tranquility and refreshing quietude 
of the evening. It is, therefore, useful to devote some 
timeato meditation before we leave the world, whene- 
ver we can procure an interval of repose. The thought 
alone of the arrival of this happy period, recreates the 
mind ; it is the first fine day of Spring, after a long 
and dreary Winter. 

- Petrarch scarcely perceived the approaches of 
old age. By constant activity he rendered his retire* 
ment always happy, and every year passed in pleasure 
and tranquility unperceived away. From a little ver- 
dant harbour in the neighbourhood of a Carthusian 
monastery, he wrote to his friend Septimo with a 
naivete unknown to modern manners : " Like a wea- 
" ried traveller, I increase my pace in proportion as I 
" draw nearer the end of my journey. I read and 
u write night and day ; they alternately relieve each 

* other. These are my only occupations, and the 
" source of all my pleasures. I lie awake a great 
" part of the night. I labour, I divert my mind, and 
" make every effort in my power : the more difficul- 
u ties I encounter, the more my ardour increases : 
a novelty incites ; obstacles sharpen me : the labour 
" is certain ; but the success precarious. My eyes 

* are dimmed by watchings ; my hand tired of hold- 



288 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

« ingtbepen. My wish is, that posterity may know 
" me. If I do not succeed in this wish, the age in 
« which I live, or at least the friends who have known 
« me, will do me justice, and that is sufficient. My 
« health is so good, my constitution so robust, my 
« temperament is so warm, that neither the maturity _ 
M of age, the most serious occupations, the habit of 
tf continency, nor the power of time, can vanquish 
" the rebellious enemy which I am obliged incessant- 
" 3y to attack. I rely, upon Providence, without 
H which, as has frequently happened before, I should 
" certainly become its victim. At the end of the win- 
" ter, I frequently take up arms against the flesh ; 
« and am even at this moment fighting for my liberty 
" against its most dangerous enemy/' 

In old age, the most obscure retirement in the 
country adds still greater glory to those ardent and 
energetick minus, who fly from the world to terminate 
their career in Solitude. Though far removed from 
the theatre of their fame, they shine with higher lustre 
than in the days of their youth. " It is in Solitude, 
" in exile, on the bed of death/' says Pope, " that 
" the noblest characters of antiquity shone with the 
« greatest splendour ; it was then that they performed 
& the greatest services ; for they then communicated 
" their knowledge to mankind." 

Rousseau may be included in this observation.— * 
" It is certainly doing some service," says he, " to 
" give men an example of the life which they ought 
" to lead. It is certainly useful, when all power of 
" miad or strength of body is decayed, boldly to make 
« men listen to the voice of truth from retirement. — » 
% It is of some service to inform men of the absurdity 
v of those opinions which render them miserable. I 
W should be much more useless to my countrymen 
*5 living amongst them, than I can be in the occasion. 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEAJLT. 2§9 

" of my retreat. Of what importance is it where I 
" live, if I act as I ought to act I" 

But a young lady of Germany did not understand 
things in this way. She maintained that Rousseav 
-was a dangerous seducer of the youthful mind ; and 
that he had acted extremely wrong in discovering in 
his Confessions all his faults, his vicious inclinations, 
and the worst side of iiis heart. Such a work written 
by a man of virtue would be immediately decried ; but 
Rousseau, by whose writings the wicked are so cap- 
tivated, in his story of the Ruban vole, evinces a heart 
of the blackest dye ! There are a thousand passages 
in that book, from which we may clearly see that his 
pen was guided by vanity alone, and others, where we 
feel that he utters sentiments against his own convic- 
tion. There is nothing, in short, throughout the 
work, which bears the mark of truth ; ail that wc 
learn from it, is, that Madame De Warens was the 
original from which Rousseau copied his Julia. 
The Confessions of Rousseau, generally speaking, 
contain a great many fine words, with very few good 
thoughts. If, instead of rejecting every opportunity 
of advancing himself in life, Rousseau had engaged 
in any kind of trade, he would have been more useful 
to the world than he has been by the publication of his 
dangerous writings. 

This incomparable criticism upon Rousseau, mer- 
its preservation, because I believe it is the only one of 
its kind. The Confessions of Rousseau are certainly 
not proper for the eye of youth ; but to me they are 
works as replete with philosophy, and as worthy of 
attention, as any the present age has produced. Their 
inimitable style and enchanting tints are their least 
merit. The remotest posterity will read the Confes- 
sions of Rousseau, without asking how old the authour 
was r when he gave to the age in which he lived (his 
last instance of the sincerity of his heart. 
A a 



290 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

The clays of a virtuous old man, who has attained 
to the perfection of his pleasures, flow on with unin- 
terrupted gaiety ; he then receives the reward for the 
c ? ood actions he has performed, and carries with him 
the benedictions of all around him. The eye is never 
afraid to review the transactions of an honourable and 
virtuous life. The energetick mind never shudders at 
the sight of a tomb. The Empress Maria There- 
bA has caused her own mausoleum to be erected ; and 
frequently stops to view a monument, the dreadful 
thoughts of which so few can" bear : she points it out 
to the observation of her children, and says, M Is it pos- 
i; siblc for us to be arrogant, when we here behold 
14 what, in the course of a few years, will become the 
" depository of Emperours ?" 

There arc few men who think with so milch sub- 
limity. Every one, however, may retire from the 
world, appreciate the past by its just value, and during 
the remainder of his days, cultivate and extend the 
knowledge he has acquired. The tomb will then lose 
its menacing aspect ; and man will look upon death 
like the closing evening of a fine day. 

The pure enjoyments of the heart frequently en- 
gender religious ideas, which reciprocally augment 
the pleasures of Solitude. A simple, innocent and 
tranquil life, qualifies the heart to raise itself towards 
God. The contemplation of nature disposes the mind 
to religious devotion, and the highest effect of religion 
is tranquility. 

When the heart is penetrated with true sentiments 
of religion, the world loses all its charms, and the bo- 
som feels with less anguish the miseries and torments 
attached to humanity. You live continually in ver- 
dant meadows, and see yourself surrounded by the 
fresh springs, upon the borders of which the Shepherd 
of Israel fed his flocks. The tumultuous hurry of the 
world appeal's like thunder rolling at a distance ; like 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 291 

the murmuring noise of distant waters, the course of 
which you perceive, and whose waves break against 
the rock upon which you are safely seated. When 
Abdison perceived that he was given over by his 
physicans, and felt his end approaching, he sent for a 
young man of a disposition naturally good, and who 
was extremely sensible of the loss with which he w T as 
threatened. He arrived ; but Addison, who was ex- 
tremely feeble, and whose life at this moment hung 
quivering on his lips, observed a profound silence. 
After a long pause the youth at length addressed him, 
" Sir, you desired to see me ; signify your commands, 
** and I will execute them with religious punctuality." 
Addison took him by the hand, and replied in his dy- 
ing voice, u Observe with what tranquility a Chris- 
* tian can die*." 

Such is the consolation and tranquility which reli- 
gion affords ; such is the peace of mind w T hich a life 
of simplicity and innocence procures: a condition 
rarely experienced in the world. Even when it is not 
altogether in our own power to remove the obstacles 
to this inward peace ; to oppose upon all occasions the 
victory of the world ; the idea of sacrificing to God, 
is very natural and affecting to every warm and virtu- 
ous heart. Why, therefore, are we so continually 
discontented and miserable ? Why do we so frequent- 
ly complain of the want of happiness and enjoyment, 
if it be not because we permit the mind to be impos- 

'* The person here alluded to was Lord Warwick, n, 
young man of very irregular life, and perhaps oflose cpini 
ons; Addison, for whom he did not want respect, had 
very diligently endeavoured to reclaim him ; but his ar- 
guments and expostulations had no effect : when lie found 
his life near its end, therefore, he directed the young lord 
■o be called, and made this last experiment to reclaim 
him. What effect this awful scene had oii tke t .arl is un> 
known ; he likewise died himself in a short time* The 
Translator, 



292 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE 

cd upon by the false appearances of things ; because 
sensuality frequently predominates over reason ; be- 
cause we prefer deceitful gifts and .fleeting pleasures 
to more essential and permanent enjoyments ; if it be 
not, in one word, because the bosom is not sensible of 
the august precepts of our holy religion ? 

But he who has studied the doctrines of the gospel, 
who has meditated upon them in silence, has nothing 
more to desire, provided he is at last sensible of the 
kind of character which he forms in the world, of that 
Which he may acquire in Solitude, and of that which 
it is his duty to attain. If he is inclined to think like 
a philosopher, and live like a christian, he will re- 
nounce the poisoned pleasures of that world which 
enervate his mind, banish every serious thought, and 
prevent the heart from rising to its God. Disgusted 
with the frivolous chimeras of vanity and folly, he 
retires to a distance from them to contemplate his own 
character, to elevate his mind to virtuous resolutions, 
and to resign himself more entirely and with greater 
permanency to the emotions of his heart. If he con- 
tinues to sail upon that tempestuous sea, still he will 
with prudence avoid the rocks and sands of life ; will 
turn, during the storm, from those dangers, by which 
lie may be wrecked ; and feel less joy in those hours 
when he sails in a fair wind and favourable sky, than 
in those when he eludes the perils which surrounded 
him. 

To the man who has accustomed his mind silently 
to collect its thoughts, the hours which he consecrates 
to God in Solitude are the happiest of his life. Every 
time we silently raise our minds to Gor>, we are car- 
ried back into ourselves. We become less sensible of 
the absence of those things on which we placed our 
happiness ; and experience much less pain in retiring 
from the noise of the world to the silence of Solitude. 
We acquire? by degrees, a more intimate knowledge 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 293 

of ourselves, and learn to look into the human breast 
with a more philosophick eye. We scrutinize our 
character with greater severity, feel with higher sen- 
sibility the necessity of reforming our conduct, and 
reflect more maturely on that which is the end of our 
lives. If we know those things which render our 
actions more acceptable in the sight of God, it ought 
to satisfy the minds of men that we do good for their 
sakes ; but every good work admits of so many secon- 
dary views, that every motive must necessarily depend 
upon the directions of the heart. Every good action, 
without doubt, conveys quietude to the breast, but is 
this quietude always pure ? Was not the mind mere- 
ly actuated by the consideration of profane and world- 
ly views to gratify a transient passion ; or influenced 
by self-love rather than by the feelings of brotherly 
affection ? We certainly discuss our thoughts and 
actions much better, and probe the emotions of the 
heart with greater sincerity, when we select for the 
examination of great and important truths those hours 
whett we are alone before God. 

It is thus that in Solitude we renounce our intimate 
connection with men to look back upon the transac- 
tions of life, to discuss our conduct in the world, to 
prepare for ourselves a more rational employment m 
future, and to render an account of those actions we 
have yet to perform. It is thus that the wounds 
Which we have received in the hostilities of life are 
healed. In the intervals of a religious retirement, 
•virtuous resolutions are more easily acquired ; the 
heart \% more easily appeased ; and we discover with 
greater certainty the safe road through all the formi- 
dable perils of life. It is thus that we are never less 
alone than when no human being is near us, because 
we are then in the presence of Him whose will it is 
of the highest importance to our happiness to obey, 

A a 2 



2S4 THE INFLUENCE OF S01ITV2E 

Solitude always calls us from weakness to power, 
from seduction to resistance, from that which is 
present to that which is to cone. Although men do 
not always enter into Solitude to commune with God, 
it is nevertheless true that they willingly quit noisy 
and tumultuous assemblies to enter into the quietude 
• • '.is tranquil house, that they may not he for ever 
obliged to lend themselves to pleasures which possess 
neither delicacy not morality. In every peaceful mo- 
t of our existence we are more immediately 
under the eye of Him whom it is eo important to us 
to please, and who observes ihe cage in his silent 
meditations. 

The apostles of society raise every where a con- 
■i clamour, as if they had matters cf very high 
importance to transact in the work;. Every cue oug s e 
:}!y to do more than the strict hue of duty calls 
him to perform ; but unhappily, we all do less 
laaa out' duty, and leave the affairs of the w r or!dto go 
on as they may. The energy necessary to the perfor- 
af gfleat actions, elevation of character, and 
uui firmness \n virtue, a; % e no where so eaci'y 
[as in Solitude, and never so efficaciously as 
. • eligi o:u— Religion disengages the iieart from 
- vain desire, renders it tranquil under the pres- 
sure oi m' -u'tuiies, humble before God, bold before 
men, iches it to rely with confidence upon the 

•/lion of Providence. Solitude and religion re- 
•11 our moral sentiments, while we remain unin- 
fected '.vith the leaven of fanaticism; and at the con- 
clusion of a life passed in the practice cf every virtue, 
we receive the reward for all the hours which we have 
consecrated to God ill silence ; of that constant and 
religious seal with which we have raised tGwards him 
pure hands and a chaste heart. 

The desire for the things of this world disappears 
•whenever we acquire sufficient courage boldly to re- 



ON THE MIND AND THE HEART. 295 

sign ourselves to the sentiment, that the actual state 
of lasting content and constant satisfaction of the soul 
has probably some analogy to the joys of eternity. A 
complete liberty to be and to do whatever we please, 
because that in heaven, in those regions of love and 
kindness, we cannot possess afti unjust or improper 
inclination ; a life of innocence ; a justification of the 
way 5 of Providence ; an implicit confidence in God ; 
an eternal communion with those whom our souls 
\o\td on earth ; are, at least, the wishes and the hopes 
which we may be, I trust, permitted in our worldly ap- 
prehensions to indulge, and which so agreeably flatter 
our imagination. But these hopes and wishes, which, 
at present, shed a glimmering light, must remain like 
dreams and visions of the mind, until the tomb, thick 
clouds, and darkness, no longer hide eternity from hu- 
man eyes, until the veil fshall be removed, and the 
Eternal reveals to us those things which no eyes 
have ever seen, which no ear has ever heard, which 
have never entered into the heart of man ; for with 
silent submission I acknowledge, that eternity, to hu- 
man foresight, is like that which the colour of purple 
appeared to be in the mind of a blind man, who com- 
pared it to the &bund of a trumfiet*. 

* Men, in general, fbndlyr hope in eternity for all that is 
flattering to their taste, inclinations, desires, and pas ions 
on earth, I therefore entirely concur in opinion with a ce- 
lebrated German philosopher, M. Garve, that those per- 
sons cannot possess humility of heart who hope that God 
will hereafter reward them with riches and honours. It 
was these sentiments which occasioned a young lady of 
Germany, extremely handsome, to say, she hoped to car- 
ry with her into the next world a habit of fine silver tis- 
sue, zoned with feathers, and to walk in heaven on carpets 
of rose-leaves spread upon the firmament. This, also, 
was the reason why, in a full assembly of women of fashion, 
where the question was agitated, whether marriages were 
good to all eternity, they ail unanimously exclaimed) God 
preserve us from it* 



296 THE INFLUENCE OF SOLITUDE &C. 

In this world, full of restraints, and embarrassments, 
of troubles and of pains, the enjoyments of liberty, lei- 
sure and tranquility, are of inestimable value ; every 
one sighs to obtain them, as the sailor sighs at sea for 
land, and shouts with triumph when he sees it ; but 
in order to be sensible of their worth, it is necessary 
to have felt the want of them. We resemble the in- 
habitants of Terra Firma, who cannot conceive an idea 
of the feelings which fill the bosom of a navigator. For 
myself, I do not know a more comfortable notion, 
than that eternity promises a constant and uninter- 
rupted tranquility, although I perfectly feel that it is 
hot possible to form any idea of the nature of that en- 
joyment which is produced by a happiness without 
end. An eternal tranquility is the highest happiness 
of my imagination, for I know of no felicity upon 
earth that can equal peace of mind. 

Since, therefore, internal and external tranquility 
is- upon earth an incontestable commencement of beatU 
tiide, it may be extremely useful to believe, that in a 
rational and moderate absence from the tumults of so- 
ciety, we may acquire faculties of the soul which are 
elements of that happiness we expect to enjoy in the 
world to come. 

I now conclude my Reflections upon the Advan- 
tages of Solitude to the Heart. May they give great- 
er currency to useful sentiments, to consolatory truths, 
and contribute, in some degree, to diffuse the enjoy* 
ment of a happiness which is so much within our 
reach ! All my desires will then be satisfied. As for 
the rest, let every one live according to his inclina- 
tion, exercise Virtue where he pleases, and procure 
at his option. Pleasure, in the enjoyment of which he 
will be certain of receiving, both here and hereafter; 
the approbation of God and his own conscience* 

THE END. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER THE FIRST. 
Introduction? -~9 

CHAPTER THE SECOND. 

The General Advantages of Solitude) . H 

CHAPTER THE THIRD. 

The Influence of Solitude upon the Mind, ?0 

CHAPTER THE FOURTH. 

The Influence of Solitude u/ion the Heart, 172 






- 



